Dead Ringer

Dead Ringer

by Torrent

In this sequel to "Jewels in Her Crown ," the deadly dildo finally gets a workout — and a familiar blonde's goose is cooked.

--------

The card attached to the gift box was brief: "Wear it. See you at 6."

Samantha Guilfoyle smiled. It was just like him, she thought. A man of few words. Big, strong, handsome, and with the dick of a champion bull. She was a sucker for — and of — big dicks.

She tore off the wrapping paper and opened the box. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a two-piece, red, white and blue costume. Emblazoned across the skimpy top was a big red "S."

Okay, she thought, I've got the tits for the job. She tore off her gray sweatshirt and pulled on the top. She was right. She filled it perfectly.

She wriggled out of her jeans and tried the blue short-shorts. Again, she looked spectacular.

Samantha didn't consider herself proud or boastful. She was just blessed with a beautiful body, a lovely face and naturally blonde hair. She was a knockout, and she knew it. What was wrong with that?

She glanced at the clock. Only 5:23. She had plenty of time. She selected a CD and popped into the player. Suddenly, her apartment was filled with the throbbing sounds of Slut Slammer and the Jay Birds — brutal, primitive, violent. There was little she was ashamed of — certainly not her hyper-sexuality — but her taste in music sometimes embarrassed her.

She stepped in front of the full-length mirror and began a slow, sensual dance. Slammer was singing, growling really, about what he was going to do to his bitch, how he was going to beat her, humiliate her, make her beg for mercy. Samantha looked at herself in the sexy Supergirl outfit and imagined falling victim to cruel men with rough hands — and kryptonite devices that looked like oversized cucumbers.

"O-o-o-o-oh," she moaned. "Oh, please don't hurt me."

She licked the forefingers and thumbs of both hands, then slipped them under the top and massaged her nipples. They instantly grew erect.

"Stop," she sighed. "Oh, no, don't bite them, don't bite."

Then she jerked her hands behind her, as if someone were tying her wrists. She squirmed and struggled, fighting her invisible bonds.

Her eyes widened in mock horror. She arched her back, pulling her pelvis away from an invisible assailant in front of her.

"Oh, no," she said hoarsely, "not there. Please, not there."

Her pelvis began to gyrate slowly.

"Oh, God. Oh, it hurts . . . . It hurts so good."

She closed her eyes and swayed to the beat of the music. I can use this, she thought. I can use this at the club. They'll love it.

Her make-believe horror turned real as she heard the closet door behind her slide open. In the mirror, she saw a man emerge behind her, a big man, clad in black. She pivoted just in time to get a face full of green mist sprayed from a canister in the man's hand. Samantha ran out of the bedroom and bolted toward the apartment door. But it burst open before she reached it, and another man rushed through. They collided, she stumbled backward, then he punched her in the jaw.

She wobbled, then sank to her knees. He kicked her in the crotch, and she toppled over onto her side.

"Out cold," he said, glancing up at his partner.

"Yeah, that was easy," said the other man. "But what I can't figure is this: I sprayed her with that aerosol kryptonite, just like Domo ordered, and nuthin' — no reaction. It was like I squirted her with water."

"So what? Kryptonite might not work, but she sure can't take a punch."

# # #

Domo was puzzled and disturbed by Gus and Bobbo's account of SG's capture.

"You're sure she inhaled the spray?" he asked.

"Yeah, boss," said Bobbo. "At least, I'm pretty sure. It went right into her face."

He looked at the young woman chained to the wall. She hung limply. One side of her face was swollen.

That worried Domo. Swelling was a normal human reaction to being punched, but Supergirl wasn't normal. At least, she hadn't been before. Maybe the crystals embedded in her skull had somehow weakened her whole system.

Whatever the processes at work inside her, her exterior remained spectacular. They had stripped her, and her naked body was perfect — long legs, slender waist, large, well formed breasts. He slipped one hand under her chin and raised her head.

Her eyes fluttered open.

"Good morning," he said softly. "Welcome back to the land of the living."

"For a while," snorted Bobbo.

Domo shot him an angry glance.

"What . . . where am I?" SG mumbled.

"Ah, you really don't remember," said Domo. "Well, my dear, you are in my home — in a very special room in my home. We call it the Body Shop. You've been here before."

SG looked past him. The room was full of large tables and strange devices made of metal and rope and leather. Chains with hooks hung from the ceiling.

"What are you going to do to me?" she asked.

"We're going to make you a movie star," said Domo. "Actually, you already are a star, in a way. Videos of your earlier stay here have been amazingly successful. The market is very select and small, of course, but those who've been given the opportunity have paid a very handsome price. And no one has complained."

Domo cupped his hands under her breasts. "They seem, if anything, even larger than I remembered. What do you think, Gus?"

"I dunno, boss," said Gus. "I wasn't given a chance to spend much time with her. Bobbo and Turgul got most of the choice assignments." There was a hint of resentment in his voice.

"Bobbo, how about it?" said Domo.

"She's changed a bit," Bobbo said. "You're right about that. But it's her. I'd recognize that face anywhere. Fuckin' beautiful."

Footsteps approached, and a tall woman with the air of an aristocrat joined the little party.

"Gretchen, our favorite house guest is back again," said Domo. "How do you think she's holding up?"

"Well, she looks okay," said Gretchen. "Have you run any tests?"

"Not yet. I was waiting for you. Maybe an MRI to see if the crystals are still in place? What do you think?"

Gretchen shook her head. "We don't need that." She pulled a small black device from her pocket, aimed it at SG and pressed a button.

SG looked blankly at her.

"Hmmm," said Domo. "Maybe the crystals have dissolved."

"They shouldn't have," said Gretchen. "Kryptonite is a very stable mineral. It should last decades."

She stepped closer to SG and slid one hand between her legs.

"We'll try an old-fashioned approach," she said.

SG flinched, then relaxed. Gretchen gently stroked SG's crotch. Suddenly, SG moaned and began to respond. Her pelvis moved back and forth.

Gretchen removed her hand and slid it into SG's mouth. The blonde sucked her fingers greedily.

"She's the same as when we let her go," said Gretchen. "The crystals may not work, but the wiring in her brain is still that of a slut."

"Thanks for your expert opinion," Domo said with a wry smile.

"What are you going to do with her?" Gretchen asked.

"Pretty much what we did the last time. Lots of rough sex, taped by the inimitable Clyde. And I thought we might sell her at a special auction. She'd bring in ten million easy."

"You don't need the money," said Gretchen. "Neither do I. We're not in this for money. You had your fun last time. This time, I want control of her."

"For what purpose?" asked Domo.

"For my pleasure. For my ultimate pleasure."

"And what would be your 'ultimate pleasure'?"

Gretchen pressed her left hand against SG's throat, then slammed her right fist into the young woman's defenseless stomach.

"Her death," said Gretchen, as SG gasped for breath.

# # #

But Domo had no intention of surrendering SG to Gretchen for a snuff party. It was true that he was rich, but one can never be too rich, he told himself. Besides, auctioning off SG might enable Domo to form an alliance with the buyer; and the buyer inevitably would be someone with enormous wealth and power.

Gretchen didn't think of such things because she had been born to wealth. She didn't have to plot how to accumulate wealth through ingenious criminal schemes — the kind of schemes he had spent his life devising.

So, in his mind, SG's fate was settled. Days or weeks of starring in sex videos, then to the auction block.

Meanwhile, he might as well have some fun with her himself — something he hadn't allowed himself during her first visit.

That evening, he had Bobbo and Turgul deliver her to him in his bedroom. Her hands were shackled behind her, and she wore only a leather collar with a metal ring. Slave collars on women were one of his favorite fetishes.

"Remove the handcuffs," Domo said. "Now, gentlemen, you can go."

When they were alone, Domo gestured to the marble bar and said, "Champagne?"

"I guess so. Sure," she said.

He handed her a glass of champagne, then raised his own glass.

"To a beautiful and mutually rewarding relationship," he said.

"Whatever," she said. Then she drained the glass.

"Be careful," he said. "This can make you tipsy."

"That's okay. I'm best when I'm a little tipsy."

She knew what was expected of her. She moved toward him and opened his maroon robe. He wasn't as muscular as she liked in a man, but when she looked down she saw that the muscle that really counted was just about ready.

"I can see why you're the boss here," she crooned. She knelt and wrapped her fingers around his shaft. "It looks delicious."

She ran her tongue around the head, then took it into her mouth.

Domo closed his eyes and trembled. She was good — a hell of a lot better than Gretchen. Better than any of the sluts that he and Gretchen had experimented on, and disposed of.

He raised SG to her feet and guided her to the huge bed. "Lie on your belly," he commanded.

He slid a pillow under her pelvis and fucked her slowly from behind. When he was just about to cum, he withdrew.

"Turn over," he said.

When she was on her back, he slid his hands up and down her body. Never had he fondled anything so perfect. He closed his eyes, letting his fingers feed him tactile images.

Then, suddenly, he opened his eyes again. A flaw. His fingers had detected something that shouldn't be there.

He was about to speak, when the bedroom door burst open.

# # #

It was all arranged. Gretchen would stick with at least part of Domo's program. Clyde would shoot lots of videotape. He was, after all, a professional. He had worked in Hollywood, and abroad. Assistant director of "Chop-Shop Mamas." Cinematographer for an Italian flick, "Snuff Babes of the Adriatic." Half a dozen other credits.

Gretchen described what she wanted.

"Okey, dokey," said Clyde. "We can handle that. Is it cool with Domo?"

"Domo is indisposed," Gretchen said sharply.

"Okey, dokey. So who's our leading man?"

"We'll start with Meecham," she said.

Clyde nodded slowly. Meecham. He was the new boy on the block. Melville and Crustacean used to be her favorites, but now it all Meecham, all the time.

"Does he have . . . uh, the equipment?" he asked.

"More than enough," Gretchen said with a hint of a smile. "More than most of you sorry bastards."

# # #

Meecham may have had the equipment, but physical courage wasn't one of his noticeable characteristics. Fucking Supergirl sounded like risky business.

"The slut is all yours, Meecham," said Gretchen, as they assembled for the shoot.

"Thanks. I assume she's . . . safe?"

"Of course. The crystals in her head don't sexually excite her the way they did, but she's as weak as a kitten."

"A declawed kitten?"

"Totally. Melville and Crustacean worked her over this morning. She's no more dangerous now than any other reasonably athletic young woman — and you've never had much trouble with that type."

Meecham grinned. Then he turned to SG, and his grin disappeared. He stared at her with cold eyes.

But SG wasn't looking at his eyes. She saw the bulge in his tight leather pants and felt weak. As he moved toward her, she automatically sank to her knees. He stopped, his crotch inches from her face. He wore a black codpiece. On one side of it was a metal tag.

He pointed and said, "Bite it, sweetie. Bite it and rip it off."

She did as she was commanded. There was the sound of Velcro tearing, and suddenly his dick was exposed, semi-erect and much too large for so slim a man.

SG licked her lips and trembled. She wanted it, wanted it to fill her mouth and eject its juices down her throat.

"Lick it, sweetie," Meecham said softly. "Lick it til it's hard as a rock."

She licked it, slowly at first, then with growing intensity. She took the huge purple head into her mouth.

He stepped back and drove his knee into her jaw. She fell backward.

"Did I say suck it?" he barked. He slammed the heel of his boot into her exposed belly. She groaned and turned onto her side.

Meecham flipped her back onto her back, straddled her and knelt so that his dick hovered just above her face.

"Who am I?" he asked, as he stroked his swollen organ.

"My lord and master," she said softly.

"And what are you?" he asked.

She hesitated. He removed his right hand from his dick and punched her in the mouth.

"What are you?" he asked again.

She mumbled an incomprehensible answer. Blood trickled from the corners of her mouth.

"I can't hear you, bitch," Meecham said, resuming his masturbation.

"I am . . . I am a worthless slut," she whispered.

"Again," he shouted. He was nearing climax.

"A worthless slu . . . ." She gagged on her own blood and coughed, spraying a foamy red geyser into the air. At that moment Meecham groaned loudly, and his creamy ejaculate spurted onto SG's face. Cum and blood mixed into a pinkish mess, and Meecham reached down with his left hand and pressed it into her mouth and nose and eyes. She struggled helplessly.

"What's the matter, bitch," he snarled. "Don't like strawberry?"

Gretchen stepped onto the stage. "Okay, Meecham. Great job, but that's enough for now." She knelt beside SG, grabbed a handful of her hair and raised her head as Clyde moved closer with the camera.

"Here's our pitiful little superheroine," Gretchen said. "Have you had a good time?" She made SG nod yes. "And did Meecham's big dick excite you?" Again, a forced nod.

"And do you want this degrading session to end?" This time she shook SG's head violently back and forth.

"I didn't think so," Gretchen said with a sweet smile. "Okay, Turgul, now it's your turn."

Turgul's approach was straightforward and brutal. He reached down, grabbed SG's collar and jerked her to her feet. Then he slammed his other fist into her gut. She tried to double up, but he had too tight a grip on her collar. Three, four, five more punches landed with sickening thuds. She went limp in his grip.

"Put her on the table," Gretchen said. "Then butt-fuck her."

Turgul tossed her face down on the heavy wooden table. Meecham grabbed her wrists and pulled until she was at the perfect angle for Turgul to assault her from behind.

Gretchen handed Turgul a bottle of lotion, and he squirted it into SG's asshole. Then he dropped his pants, revealing a dick almost as big as Meecham's.

SG writhed and screamed as he plunged it into her. Turgul fucked her slowly. He prided himself on his ability to postpone ejaculating.

As he continued pumping, Gretchen leaned over the table and brushed the blonde hair from SG's bloodied face.

"So pretty," she said. "She won't be pretty for long, though." She glanced up at Meecham. "When Turgul's finished with her, take her to the kitchen."

Meecham shrugged. "Sure, but what's the point? We're not going to eat her."

Gretchen smiled brightly. "Who says we aren't?"

# # #

Turgul was pissed. Sure, he had gotten to fuck that hot little bitch Supergirl again, and to do it in a way that would fill her with shame. But he wasn't in control here; Gretchen and her freako sidekick Meecham were. Worse yet, they evidently planned to disfigure and butcher the slut, which would infuriate his boss and mentor, Domo. And when Domo was furious, everyone was in danger — including Turgul, even though his only offense was to be unlucky enough to be drafted by Gretchen into this enterprise.

Angry, he punched the wall of the long hallway that led back to the staff quarters. Well, if he was going to be punished anyway, he figured he ought to at least get something out of it — something more than a piece of ass. For months, the image of Stick's crushed skull had haunted him. He had hoped that Domo, after he was finished with her, would turn SG over to him. He planned to ram that studded steel dildo deep inside her pussy and tear apart everything that made her a woman. Then he would attack her asshole. Now that she was weakened and could bleed, the assault on her most private parts would surely be fatal.

Dildo of Death. Butt Ripper. He pictured the steel rod in a marketing video aimed at wealthy perverts. "The sex toy that snuffed Supergirl can be yours for only . . . ." He paused in his mental rambling. How much would it be worth? Could he get away with selling it and pocketing the full price, without sharing with Domo? Hell, why even tell Domo?

"What's up, Turd Bull?" Meecham's voice startled him.

"Nuthin'," said Turgul. "Just heading back to my room."

"Don't you want to see what we're doing to Superslut?"

"Sure, but Domo's not gonna like it. He said to keep her intact until he decides what to do to her."

Meecham laughed. "You really are out of the loop, Turd Bull," he said.

"Quit calling me that," Turgul growled.

"I'll call you whatever I fucking please, Turd Bull. You don't count for shit around here. Domo may have indulged you, but Domo's gone. Victim of a coup. Gretchen's chief bitch now."

"What do you mean gone?" Turgul asked.

"I mean kaput, dead, not only dead but diced and sliced and out with the garbage."

Turgul turned pale. "I don't believe you."

"After we check in on Superslut, I'll show you the video. Yes, we taped it, the whole thing. It's amazing what a commercial food processor can do to a human body, once you've cut it into manageable chunks."

Turgul felt sick to his stomach. He knew Gretchen and Meecham and the other weirdos were capable of any depravity, but he never expected them to stand up to Domo.

When they reached the kitchen, Meecham opened the door and waved Turgul in.

SG hung upside down, legs spread 45 degrees, ankles tied with wire to chains attached to the ceiling. Blood from Meecham's punch had dribbled down her face and through her hair and formed a small pool on the floor. Her arms hung loose, her fingers only inches from the floor.

The chef was poking her body with a stubby forefinger.

"What do you think, Henri," Meecham asked.

" La viande, she is ferme . Yes, very good. She will be très délicieuse , Monsieur."

"You bet your French ass, she will be," said Meecham.

"Is she still alive?" asked Turgul.

"Sure," said Meecham. He grabbed a meat-softening mallet from a table and swung it in wide, overhand arc. It landed on her crotch with a thunk. She moaned, and her body jerked violently.

"Still alive, but not for long, Turd Bull. In an hour or so, Gretchen and the gang will be down here for the final festivities. Henri is going to show us how to butcher a 126-pound woman in such a way as to feed 70 to 80 guests. We won't have that many this evening, of course. We're going to freeze most of her. It'll all be on tape. We may launch a cable channel — 'Cooking with Henri.' It would be a smashing success."

Henri smiled a tight little smile under his toothbrush mustache. "You are too kind, Monsieur."

"If you're going to cut her apart anyway," said Turgul, "can I have her for a few minutes. I've got something I want to do to her."

"I'll bet you do," Meecham said with a leer. "But we can't risk damaging the meat."

"I won't damage her. I promise. You won't notice any difference."

Meecham looked at him thoughtfully. "What do you have in mind?"

"There was a dildo down in the Body Shop. Domo kept it in a drawer under the big table. We was gonna use it on her the night Stick was killed."

"And you want to use it on her now?" Meecham asked. "What's the point? You want to give her one last orgasm?"

"No fuckin' way. You have to see this thing — steel with wicked studs. It'll tear her insides apart. And since you're gonna kill her and eat her anyway, what the hell difference does it make?"

Meecham smiled. "This sounds too good not to share with the rest of us. Go get the dildo. You'll get to use it, but not alone. We'll all be there, and Clyde will record it for posterity — and for all the bitch's fans."

# # #

Through the fog of pain, SG had heard the grisly conversation. Now the big kitchen was quiet, except for the sound of Henri whistling at the far end. She opened her eyes and tried to make sense of what she saw. The room was upside-down. No, she must be upside-down.

She tilted her head so she could see her legs. It took almost all her strength. Freeing herself was impossible. But if she didn't get free, she would die a horrible death.

She decided to throw herself on the mercy of the French chef.

"Help," she cried. But her voice was weak, and Henri kept whistling.

She tried again: "Help. Please help me."

The whistling stopped. She heard footsteps approaching, then she saw Henri. He put his fists on his hips and looked annoyed.

"Why do you plead?" he asked. "Your destin , he cannot be escaped."

"Please," she whispered.

Henri rubbed his chin. "Perhaps I will help you," he said. "Perhaps you will help me." He picked up a remote control and pushed a button. A motor whirred, chains rattled, and SG was lowered a few inches. Henri looked at her, then down at himself. He nodded in satisfaction, pulled off his apron and unzipped his pants.

SG realized what he wanted and felt sick. A blowjob.

"Please," she said in a very small voice. "Please, not this."

" Mais oui," said the chef. "Why should I help you if you refuse?"

He stepped closer. His dick was inches from her face. Then he put his arms around her waist and pulled her closer, and his organ was inside her mouth.

She began to suck, and as she did, she felt Henri's tongue licking her pussy. Despite herself, she began to get aroused. She put her arms around him and caressed his pudgy behind. His smelled of sex and garlic.

They came simultaneously, he ejaculating profusely into her mouth, she wracked with ecstatic tremors.

Then he withdrew, wiped his dick with a dish towel and zipped up his pants.

" Merci, my child. That was very good."

She mumbled that it was good for her, too, and waited for him to use the remote control again to lower her to the floor. But when he pushed the button, she was pulled back up toward the ceiling, not down. When her face was at a level with is, he stopped the motor.

"I am very sorry, Mademoiselle," he said. "If I let you go, they would kill me."

"You bastard!" she sobbed.

" Oui, I am un salaud. But I am also a very good chef, and I will cook you to perfection. I can assure you."

At that moment, a door opened and voices filled the room: Gretchen's, Meecham's, Melville's, and others'. SG shuddered. Now she would die.

# # #

They tied her to a big, Y-shaped table. Gretchen stood between her spread legs and inserted two fingers into SG's pussy. "Amazing. The bitch is about to die, and she's wet. Funny what can excite a woman."

"You're a woman," said Crustacean. "What excites you?"

"This," said Gretchen. "Torture. Degradation. Death. The same things that excite you, my little crab cake. And soon we can add cannibalism to our list of lovely perversions."

She turned and looked over the small crowd.

"Come here, Turgul," she said. "Meecham says you have a very special treat for Superslut — and for us."

Turgul stepped forward. He carried a long object wrapped in newspaper.

Gretchen moved aside, and Turgul took her place between SG's legs. He held up his package, then ripped away the paper, revealing the deadly dildo. The small audience applauded.

"Show it to our guest of honor, Turgul," said Gretchen.

Turgul turned and held it over SG. She began to tremble violently.

"No," she cried. "Please. Kill me quickly. Kill me now. Don't use that thing on me."

Gretchen close to SG and stroked her tear-stained cheek.

"Yes, we will kill you," she said softly. "Of course, we will kill you. But not quickly — especially not now, when Turgul has come up with such a wonderful way to entertain you." She looked up and said sharply, "Melville, get in close. I want you to keep your camera focused on her face. Clyde will take care of the other end."

Several members of the crew had brought in powerful lights, and suddenly the scene was ablaze. SG blinked and turned her head back and forth, searching for a sympathetic face, someone who would show mercy. There was none.

Turgul leaned forward and said, "Okay, honey, this is for Stick."

He pressed the rounded end of the dildo against the lips of her pussy and rubbed it gently against them. She moaned softly, and her pussy got wetter.

"She likes it," Meecham said.

"She won't like this," answered Turgul. He shoved the dildo three inches inside her, and the sharp studs, protruding half an inch each from the steel cylinder, began their deadly work. SG screamed and struggled. She arched her back and tried to draw her pelvis away from the offending rod. Crustacean pressed her belly back down on the table, and Turgul pushed the dildo even deeper.

Her screams for mercy were drowned out by the cheers of the crowd.

"She won't last long," said Crustacean. "Look, she's already bleeding like a stuck pig."

Indeed, blood was gushing from her vagina. The flow increased as Turgul rotated the steel rod, drawing the studs across tender internal tissues.

"Six inches," said Turgul. "Halfway there."

"Finish her off," said Meecham. He was beginning to feel queasy.

"Not a chance," said Turgul. "Nice and easy does it."

He pushed it in another two inches. Spasms of pain wracked SG's body. Instead of screams, she made strange gasping and gurgling noises. Her eyes had rolled back, and only the whites showed.

Turgul worked the dildo around inside her.

Suddenly, SG's struggles ceased. She lay senseless, perhaps lifeless.

"Aw, shit," said Crustacean. "Just when it was getting good."

"It's over. She's dead," said Gretchen. "Turn her over to Henri."

"Not yet," said Turgul. He looked down on SG's bleeding body, motionless except for the rise and fall of her lower belly, where he manipulated the dildo.

"One last push, the one Stick never got to give you, sweetheart." He jammed the rod all the way to the grip. Twelve inches of studded steel were now inside her.

SG seemed to revive, no longer an animal in pain but someone in a strange reverie. She looked into the camera, less than a foot from her face. Her lips tried to form a word, but then she was convulsed and coughed blood.

"Son of a bitch," Melville yelled. "She got it all over my lens."

Gretchen pressed two fingers against SG's neck. "No pulse. She's finished."

They untied her, and Henri took over. He placed a bucket on the floor, turned SG so that her head hung over the edge of the table, then slashed her throat with a short, broad-bladed knife. Blood flowed out, but slowly. Her heart no long pumped.

"Very good," said Henri. "I will need some help." He nodded to Turgul. "You are big and strong. You will carry her over there, and we will gut her."

The crowd began to thin. Gretchen said, "Clyde, stay with them. I want tape of every step. But I don't need to stay here any longer."

"Neither do I," said Meecham, joining her.

"Cheez," growled Turgul. "What a bunch of pussies. Okay, Henri, you can count on me. I'll rip her guts out by hand, once you slice her open."

# # #

Two weeks later, at a private club on the top floor of the second tallest building of Metropolis, Superman and Commissioner Baron had just finished dinner and were lighting up cigars.

Baron blew a smoke ring into the air and said, "The time has come, my friend, to lay our cards on the table — to share intelligence."

Superman, adjusted his blue and red tie, smiled and said, "Sure. You go first."

"We have an informant," said Baron, "one who's proved reliable in the past. He tells us that Domo is dead, the victim of an internal power struggle. That's the good news."

"And the bad?"

"It was Gretchen MacBride who pulled it off."

Superman's nose wrinkled, as if he had just detected a foul odor.

"Yes, I see you've heard about her," continued Baron. "And perhaps you've also heard she is virtually untouchable. Her connections are very impressive. Her father was the governor's chief fund raiser in the last election, and an uncle is dean of the medical school."

"I knew she had friends in high places," said Superman. "I just didn't know the details. Is there anything I can do?"

"Yes. You can answer a few questions."

"Shoot."

"Where is you cousin?"

"Kara Zor-El? She's far from here — safe and sound."

"You're sure?" asked Baron.

"Absolutely," said Superman. "I saw her only two days ago."

"Well, that's a relief. We heard . . . . our informant told us that Supergirl had been killed in some kind of snuff ritual. He said he saw them kill her."

Superman twirled a brandy snifter in his hands and said nothing.

"And after they killed her," said Baron, leaning forward and speaking more softly, "they butchered and ate her."

The snifter shattered, and glass and brandy spattered over Superman's expensive suit.

"My God," said Baron, "are you okay?"

"Yes, yes. You know broken glass can't hurt me."

A waiter rushed up with a towel. Baron handed it to Superman and said, "Thank you, James. We'll tidy up here. Sorry if the rug got wet. Send me the cleaning bill."

When they were alone again, Superman leaned forward and put his face in his hands.

"What's wrong?" Baron asked. He looked deeply worried.

Superman was quiet for a long time. Finally, he said, "I've sent a young woman to her death."

"You mean the victim? You knew her?"

"I befriended her, then I set her up. She was a decoy — to protect Kara. She looked like her, exactly like her. I knew I was placing this woman in danger, I even tipped off Domo where he could find her. Somehow, I thought it would all work out. He'd realize his mistake and let her go — or even give her a job. God, what a fool I was!"

"Well, nothing can be done about it now," said Baron, clumsily patting Superman's knee. "Just one of those things. What's important is your cousin is alive and safe. They think they killed her. They won't be looking for her anymore."

# # #

But Gretchen was looking for her; she was looking for Supergirl in her dreams. Ever since the banquet at which the young woman had been consumed, Gretchen had slept badly. It wasn't a case of remorse. Something was wrong with the picture. Something was wrong with the almost effortlessly successful capture, torture and death of the slut Gretchen hated so much.

In a recurring dream, Gretchen watched as Turgul drove the dildo into SG and churned it inside her. It moved like some restless animal in her guts, pushing up her lower abdomen. It could pop out at any moment, in a bloody, alien birth. What was it about this image? What was wrong?

Gretchen awakened with a start. She looked at the clock — 2:33 in the morning. No sense trying to get back to sleep. She was too excited.

She got out of bed, lit a cigarette, picked up the TV remote and punched a button. The huge flat screen on the wall lit up. Two talking heads on CNN debating the latest coup in Russia. Fuck it. Another button, and now it was National Geographic on pandas.

She walked over to the shelf of DVDs and tapes. They were in neat rows, except one tape. It lay on its side on the edge of the shelf.

Supergirl #6. The one she had watched two days ago. The one she needed to see again — slowly and carefully.

She popped it the VCR. They were tying Supergirl to the table in the kitchen. The quality of the tape was poor, and there was no sound. This was a transfer based on raw footage, before Clyde had begun editing. The camera moved in for a close-up of the girl's pussy. Then a shot of her face, eyes searching for help that she knew wouldn't come. Melville had shot this part.

Then back to Clyde's work. Turgul was pressing the end of the dildo against her labia. She was responding — sexually. The bitch couldn't help it, even as she stared into the face of death.

There! Just above her pubic hair and slightly off-center. A white line on the skin, perhaps three inches long.

A scar.

Whatever their weaknesses when exposed to kryptonite, Superman and his kin don't get appendicitis.

They don't have operations.

They don't have scars.

So who was the little bitch they had butchered, Gretchen wondered. Oh, well, what difference did it make. Supergirl was still alive. That's what counted.

The tape continued to roll. Gretchen, deep in thought, suddenly realized what was on the screen: the gutting. She shuddered. Turgul was enthusiastically ripping out the young woman's innards. The scene revolted her.

Yet it also fascinated her. She couldn't look away.

And she couldn't help but think that Supergirl was alive and there was the delicious possibility that the butchery could all be repeated — this time with the right victim.

It was only a matter of time. In a week, a month, a year, Supergirl would reappear in Metropolis. She would be drawn back to crime-fighting, like a moth to the flame.

Like a lamb to slaughter.

THE END