The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

What does it mean... to be ‘good’?

It seems a simple question at first glance. I mean, even most children know the difference between good and evil, right and wrong. Unless you’re a sociopath with no moral compass at all, you know if an action you are taking, or even contemplating, is a good one or a bad one. Of course, we don’t always listen to our conscience, that nagging little voice inside that pokes and prods us, that urges us to resist temptation. And for some of us, the angel’s voice is pretty much drowned out by the devil shouting encouragement coming from the opposite shoulder, almost to the point of being non-existent. But no matter how softly it speaks, how low the whisper may seem... the voice is still there.

I admit it. I ignored that voice for... a very long time. Years. Decades. Centuries. Millenia. Eons. When I was young—hah, if I could ever truly consider myself that at all—the world was still new. Those of us with power, with influence, were worshiped like the gods and goddesses we were. Our job was to guide and care for the lesser beings, the humans that were really just coming into their own, just starting to make their way in the world. And we did... in the beginning at least, help them. Guide them. Protect them and teach them, and help them prosper. And in return, they served us, and praised us, and worshipped us.

But alas... you know the old saying about power and corruption. After a time, it became more about the worship and praise than actually taking care of our charges. We became arrogant and haughty. After all, humans didn’t have our powers, our strength, our longevity. They were pale and fragile creatures. Lesser beings, compared to us, almost like pets. And really, that’s the way most of us saw them! Or... at least I did.

Think of it this way. Even if you cared for a dog or cat, raised it from birth, fed and took care of it, and loved it dearly, it still wasn’t your equal. He or she was STILL the pet, and subject to your whims. One of you sits at the table and eats on a plate, and the other lies on the floor, eating from a bowl. And when that becomes your reality... then the value of a simple person, a human being, becomes pretty insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

Not that we were purposely evil to them or anything. Not on purpose. Everyone has their bad days, after all. Everyone gets angry or pissed about something, even gods. And... sometimes we overreact. Cursing a snotty arrogant but beautiful girl with a face that turned anyone that saw it to stone just because you were badmouthed was... a bit of an overreaction. I can admit that. Now. Yes, we went a bit overboard sometimes. But... it wasn’t with intentional malice or anything. Not always...

Because, the simple fact of the matter is, we NEEDED them. Our relationship with human beings was... symbiotic. Their praise and worship empowered us. As the centuries wore on and we became jaded in our duties, as we began dealing out fewer boons and more abuse, the humans began turning away from us. After all, who wanted to serve a god that only dealt out pain and torment and fear and loathing? And... of course, as our thralls became less and less, we responded with threats and violence. As if we could SCARE them into obedience. Some of us... even tried more drastic means in order to maintain the status quo. My older brother Ares even adopted the frame of mind that ‘if they won’t follow us, then they can all burn in Tartarus!’

That was the beginning of the end for us, really. When you think gods and goddesses, you think of the apex, the top of the food chain, the very highest level. Well, it’s both true, and misleading. Even we ‘gods’ had those above us, other higher deities that WE were beholden to. Basically, They didn’t approve of how we were handling things. Even higher beings have rule and laws that they have to abide by. And over the centuries, we’d managed to break or bend most of them. But finally, finally, we’d reached the tipping point. The word had come down ‘from above’: Based on our latest performance review, the ‘Company’ decided to ‘downsize’, and several of us were ‘let go’.

I suppose I was one of the lucky ones. As the Goddess of Love, my role was still appreciated, and necessary. And my... transgressions... had been considerably less than my siblings. I’d received a slap on the wrist, an admonishment, and was left to my own devices. But the era of the gods was passing. Faith in us had been shattered, and the world itself was changing. Even the Great Ones themselves, the Nornir, felt the shift in time and tide. The youngest had decided to enter the Grand Cycle herself, surrendering her immortality in exchange for eternity... to live and die and live again in a different life, a different time, continuing her existence, yet changing and growing with every cycle.

At the time, I’d personally thought her mad, driven to grief over the loss of a few insignificant servants... surrendering her godhood to exist as a mortal being, living and dying after a short stretch of time the way the lowly humans did? Inconceivable. Madness! And yet... after a time, the other Sisters followed suit, joining their younger Peer in that never-ending cycle. And finally it struck me, as my temples fell into ruin, and my few faithful followers died off one by one. Change. People change. The times change. The world changes. Everything changes. Or it fades away. If I wanted to continue, I, too, would have to change. And so, fearful, for perhaps the first time in my existence, I stepped forward, surrendered my essence to the World Tree... and embraced change.

And... have I changed?

I look at myself now, standing impatiently, foot tapping idly on the floor, waiting for my friend/lover/trainer/Master to make his way down to the training room for our latest sparring match. In the thousands of years since I surrendered my immortality, I’d lived countless lives, some peaceful, some not so much. In all that time, I’d lived among the humans, though I’d never really considered myself one of them. Even bound in a mortal body, I’d still viewed them as lesser beings. In fact, it was only recently, in THIS lifetime, that I’d come to understand how much I have in common with them... and that I AM one of them.

Heh. That’s progress, I suppose. Back in the BC era, such a thought would have been unfathomable.

Still... I have to wonder how well this crazy idea of mine will actually work. I know very well my own strengths and weaknesses. And yes, I’ve had a bit of a change of heart... and of perspective. And yet... the very idea of playing the hero scares me as much as it appeals to me. I mean... heroes are selfless and brave, willing to risk life and limb to help those in need. Me... I am admittedly selfish. I value my own life, my existence. Even though my life essence will never truly be lost, I value THIS life, and all the friends and loved ones I’ve acquired, a hell of a lot! If the choice came where it was either my life or the life of an innocent, a helpless defenseless person... could I actually make the ultimate sacrifice?

And does my hesitation, my questioning whether or not I could willingly put myself in such a situation, make me a bad person? If placing one’s own self-interests above those of another person isn’t exactly evil, it certainly can’t be considered the personification of good. I’ve been called evil before. Hell, I’ve BEEN evil, embraced my anger and hatred, and engaged in acts even my brother Ares would have cringed at. So... is it any wonder that I doubt myself now... that I seriously ask myself if I am good enough to be a hero?

“Okay. I’m ready!” Parker Albinn announced, walking up to me, wearing a comfortable looking black karate gi, the perfect counterpoint to my own scarlet colored gi. “Sorry for the wait. Just needed to make sure Roni was okay. Had a serious bout of morning sickness today,” he stated ruefully, shaking his head. “It’s funny. As much as she always talked about how great it was being pregnant with Lucy, she never seems to remember the not-so-fun parts that went with it.”

I laughed at that. “I think that’s pretty universal. Most women tend to focus on the good parts and just blank out the bad. Call it a survival technique.”

“Survival technique?”

“If all women remembered and focused on was the BAD part of childbirth, do you honestly think any woman would get within ten feet of a man’s dick?”

Parker blinked, considering. “Heh. Good point.” Walking over to the wall, he perused the stack of weapons there. “You know, V,” he said, in that faux casual tone I’d learned means he’s leading up to an unpleasant topic, “you’re really coming along quickly. You’ve picked this up a lot faster than Megan did. Heck, even faster than I did when Roni trained me back in the day.”

“Naturally,” I replied, eyebrow raised. “Is that really such a surprise? I have centuries more fighting experience than you, after all.”

“Yes... and centuries less humility about it, too,” he grumbled, causing me to giggle. “Still, I think we need to talk about your... eh... choice of costume.” I groaned inwardly. This again?

I caught the wooden bokken as he tossed it to me, whirling it around my wrist briefly. “There’s no need to discuss it, Parker,” I said evenly as he drew his own wooden sword and approached me, at the ready. “It’s what I want to wear. I don’t see a problem with it.”

“Your costume is a red silk evening gown,” he pointed out, taking a single step towards me, closing the distance.

“And you wore a bright red spandex Santa Claus suit before you dropped into your Goth phase,” I stated blandly, dodging a swipe at my left flank, countering with a swing as his chest, which he likewise dodged. “What’s your point?”

A scowl marred his ruggedly handsome face. “My point is that you might be better suited in something more... functional,” he grunted, stumbling back a bit, narrowly dodging a quick stab towards his midsection, “instead of something fashionable. Even with side slits, it can’t be easy to fight in a freaking dress. A standard leotard or full body suit would give you better freedom of motion—”

“I have all the motion I need, thank you,” I replied, slightly irritated, pressing my advantage, and forcing him back towards a wall. “I’m quite used to moving around in a dress. Hell, I spent a few centuries moving about and fighting in a toga! I’m just as familiar flitting about in my Valentino original as I am in my own skin.” I smirked, as he came into contact with the wall, finding himself boxed in. “Besides, I’d think I proved how well I can handle myself when we fought on the roof of the Grimalde Towers.”

“Yes, one would think,” he grumbled, taking a deep breath. Without warning, he struck out at me, the dull wooden blade suddenly in front of my face. I managed, barely, to whip to the side, barely avoiding what would have been a very painful hit. Before I could open my mouth to comment, he struck again, and again I dodged, barely, so close that the blade whipped my hair to the side.

“Parker! What the fuck—” I began, only to bring up my own blade, deflecting a blow centered for the space between my eyes! He then launched into a furious barrage of strikes aimed at my face, causing me to backpedal and flail desperately to defend myself. With a cry, I stumbled and tripped, landing hard on my butt, finding myself pinned down, Parker sitting astride me. Any other time, I might have enjoyed being in this position... but the way I’d ended up here and the fact that he still had that fucking bokken against my neck just flat out pissed me off! I struggled for a few seconds before my anger reached its peak. Tapping into my goddess powers, I growled, ”GET THE FUCK OFF OF ME!” as I shoved, hard, sending him flying across the room.

Panting, I got back to my feet just as he did, and stomping over to him, I grabbed him by the throat. “What the HELL was that all about?” I snarled, furious, glaring at him. “Trying to prove some kind of point?”

“Since you asked.... yes!” he growled, staring me down. “This was about proving to me whether or not you’re actually ready for this,” he said evenly, pulling out of my grasp. “And clearly, you’re not. It’s all well and good to laugh and make jokes when we train... but when things get serious, you have to be able to shift gears and get serious as well.” He sighed heavily, shaking his head. “It’s not JUST about your costume, all right? It’s about... it’s about you being able to protect yourself!” he said after a moment. I sighed as well, finally realizing what was bugging him.

“You think I think this is all a game,” I said, moving to stand face to face with him again. “You think I’m not fully committed to this... that I’m doing this all on some kind of whim? Parker, you know me better than that!”

“Well, I know you’re not giving it your full one hundred and ten percent,” he countered. “You’re feeling conflicted about this... and doubting yourself. Tell me I’m wrong.” Unable to lie to the man I cared for to his face, I averted my eyes. “You see? That’s what I mean. V... if you want to do this, you HAVE to commit to it fully. You HAVE to take it seriously! And most of all, you HAVE to be able to protect yourself!”

I nodded softly. “That’s why you were going specifically for my face. To see how I’d react.”

He shrugged, staring down at his feet, avoiding MY gaze now. “It is your one glaring weakness, after all. Your, ahem, ‘costume’, can be treated with Eugene’s formula to make it durable enough to protect your body,” he stated, “or at least, the parts of you that are actually covered. But the rest of you is just as vulnerable and fragile as anyone else. And, well... we all know what happened the last time you were physically injured...”

I sighed inwardly. As much as I hated to admit it, he had a good point. I was feeling a bit conflicted. I’d been pondering whether or not I’d actually be able to do this when he’d first arrived. The idea of being hurt like that again... of having my face... ruined. Again. I couldn’t keep from shuddering. When Parker’s arms wrapped around me, I melted into him.

“I worry about you,” he said gently, stroking my hair. “A lot. I know I probably don’t need to tell you what you already know, but I love and care for you. Just as much as I do Veronica. And now that things are finally becoming normal in my life again, I don’t want to lose you.” He sighed again. “Look... no one respects your decision to change your life and make up for your past misdeeds more than I do. This is all so new to you... putting yourself on the line for other people, virtual strangers. It’s not an easy thing to do. My niece basically had her meltdown because some asshole with a gun took out the woman she loved. And, while I don’t think I’d go totally nuclear myself... I really don’t know what I would do if the same thing happened to you...”

Goddess Bless. How can you answer something like that? I wanted to be angry at the man for trying to thrash me... but hearing just how deeply my safety meant to him, it was all I could do to keep from bawling on his chest like some weak little girl. As it was, I managed to restrain myself to a mere two tears running down my cheeks.

“Well, then,” I sniffled after a bit, managing to pull back from him, “it seems to me that the best option is for me to get serious, and make sure I AM ready for anything I might face.” Parker looked at me in surprise. “Parker, you and Roni, Chloe and Rosella... you all do this on a daily basis. You risk your lives for other people, despite the danger. And you’ve all been hurt before as well. I’m not naive enough to believe I could do what you do and come through without a scratch. But you’ve never let that stop any of you... and I won’t let it stop me either.”

“V,” he began, but I held up a hand, cutting him off.

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m... well... scared as hell,” I admitted with an effort. Expressing my true feelings was never really my strong suit. “I honestly don’t know if I have what it takes... if I CAN be that selfless. But I have to try! I have to know if I have it in me to put another’s wellbeing above my own! And before you try and remind me about my ‘vulnerability’, let me remind you that none of us are invincible. Even Lacie Frasier has her weaknesses.” I managed a wan smirk. “In the end, all we can do is try our best... and leave the rest in the hands of Fate.”

That managed to get a smile out of him. “Heh. Would that be the same ‘Fate’ that you routinely curse and call a raging bitch?”

I laughed. “The one and the same. But while She CAN be a bit of a bitch at times... even I have to admit She does occasionally seem to have my best interests at heart, whether or not I myself approve.” I knelt down, retrieving my bokken. “So... shall we pick up where we left off?”

“Sounds good to me,” Parker replied, bringing his wooden blade up to bear. “And, um, sorry about before. I’ll try and avoid going after your face this time—”

“No, come after me full blast,” I insisted, interrupting him. “I told you, I need to be prepared for anything I might face on the mean streets. I want you to give me everything you’ve got, and not pull your punches.” I smirked, sliding seamlessly into a defensive stance. “C’mon, Parker. Let’s see what we’re both made of!” My grin returned. “And afterwards... perhaps we can continue ‘sparring’ upstairs in the bedroom. I have a few more... techniques that I’d like to practice...”

The scattered members of Carl’s Gym glanced up, letting out a collective gasp of surprise as the doors opened, and a familiar figure stepped inside. “Hey! It’s the Champ!” Mel, one of the regulars shouted, as everyone rushed over to greet the tall muscular dark-skinned boxer. Or, nearly everyone. In the far corner, a lone person stood, silently working on the heavy bag, steadily moving their feet and punching repeatedly, working up a steady sweat, completely ignoring the hullaballou at the front of the gym.

Frankie ‘Bad Boy’ Burton grinned and posed for the crowd, eyes sparkling behind his Ray Bans, glancing around the gym where he’d trained back before hitting the big time. “Oh yeah... this is what I’m talkin’ about,” he said loudly, walking around, touching the paint chipped wall, running a fingertip along the pocked and scarred wood, inhaling deeply. “This is where it all started. Yeah... the place looks the same as it always has.” Several of the people gathered chuckled. “So, where’s Big Carl?” he asked, glancing around. “Yo! Big C! Where ya at?”

“Oh, man, Champ... didn’t ya hear?” Scott said hesitantly. “Big Carl got cancer a year or so ago. He’s retired and moved down to Florida with his brother. His son Carl Jr. is in charge of the place now.”

“Big C got cancer?” Frankie murmured, shaking his head. “Daaaammmn... That’s rough. I guess not everything is the same after all.” Pushing away the moment, he flashed a big smile again. “Well, anyway, it’s good to be back,” he said, sauntering his way over to one of the empty rings, letting out a soft sigh. “The old folks say you can’t go home again... but fuck ’em, here I am! So... anyone feel like going a few rounds with the champ?” he asked, bringing up his fists in a mock pose. “I feel like sparring a bit, to loosen up and work up a sweat. Any takers?”

The crown glanced around at each other doubtfully. Frankie Burton was an impressive fighter, and the city, hell, the entire state, looked on proudly at having one of their own holding a belt. But the nickname ‘Bad Boy’ was a well-deserved moniker; the man had a temper and was notorious for low blows, and even the occasional headbutt. No one was rushing forward for the dubious honor of trading blows with him. The champ’s smile started to fade, replaced by a slight frown of annoyance.

“Err... I, um, my back’s been bothering me lately,” Scott said, backing away slightly.

“Oh, and, um, I just got the cast off my leg last week,” Mel said, gesturing weakly at his left leg. “The doctor said I needed to take it easy. You know how it is.”

“Uh huh,” Burton replied, scowling. “C’mon, guys. Ain’t anyone here got the balls to go a few rounds with the champ? We’re just sparrin’ after all...” He glanced around the room, but everyone averted their eyes, not meeting his gaze. In the moments that followed, the only sound to penetrate the silence of the crowd was the dull thudding sounds of the lone stranger at the far end of the gym, still working on the heavy bag. “Hey! HEY!” The Champ yelled out. “You, over there in the corner. Wanna spar a few rounds with me?”

The mohawk bearing blonde paused, fist frozen in mid-swing. “No thanks. I’ll pass.” Saying nothing else, the boxer continued exercising, punching and bouncing in place.

Frankie blinked, then smirked, chuckling. “Hey, now, don’t let the fact that I’m the World Welterweight Champion scare ya. We’re just talkin’ ’bout a friendly little sparring match. Y’know... a chance to show off a bit for the crowd. No reason to be afraid.”

“Huh. I’m not afraid,” the blonde replied succinctly, letting out a deep sigh, grabbing the bag to steady it before pulling the thick white towel from around her head, wiping the sweat from her brow. Several people gaped in surprise as her face was revealed, and Frankie voiced their thoughts aloud.

“Holy shit... you’re a WOMAN?!?”

The blonde sighed heavily, walking over to her gym bag, kneeling down. “Yep. Last time I checked. Just because I have more muscles than the whole lot of you put together doesn’t mean I’m not still a woman.”

Frankie shook his head ruefully, murmuring loud enough for her to hear. “Hmph. Might wanna check with the doctor about that to be sure... looks like a trans operation that got stopped halfway, if ya know wut I’m sayin’...”

Eyes flashing briefly, the blonde knelt back down at her bag for a moment, then stood up, turning to face Frankie. “Here,” she said, tossing him a pair of boxing gloves. “You wanted to spar? Let’s spar. I got a few minutes to spare. Let’s see just how bad the Bad Boy really is.”

The crowd ooohed loudly, causing Frankie’s face to color momentarily. “Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “I ain’t gonna beat up no woman... or whatever you are. I got my reputation to think about.”

The blonde laughed humorlessly. “Well, of course. Your rep’s already shit... but it would really take a nose dive if anyone found out you’d gotten BEATEN by a girl.” Frankie stiffened. “You’re right. It’s probably better for everyone to think of you as a chicken instead of a piss poor fighter.”

“The FUCK you just say, bitch?” Frankie growled, getting up into her face. “You gonna stand there and talk shit to my face like this? Do you not know who the FUCK I am?”

“You’re the little boy too scared to put on those gloves and step into the ring to ‘spar’ with a woman,” she replied back, calmly, seemingly unshaken.

Another ‘ooooh’ from the crowd and Frankie nodded. “Fine. You asked for it,” he grumbled, sliding on the gloves, following the blonde as she stepped between the ropes. “You heard her, everyone?” he said, glancing around to the onlookers as they moved in close to watch. “She brought this on herself. She asked for this!” Turning back to his opponent, he found her merely standing there, her arms up in a lazy boxer’s stance, her face and chest completely open. “Oh! You better get ready,” Frankie said, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he approached. “You better get ready, ’cause here... I... come!”

Closing the distance, Frankie laid into the woman’s face, landing a solid jab to the center of her chin, grinning in satisfaction as her head snapped back. “Oohhh! That’s gonna leave a mark!” he taunted her, stepping back, letting her recover. Surprisingly, however, the girl merely laughed aloud, rubbing her gloved hand lightly across her chin.

“You mean on your hand?” she taunted him back. “Maybe you should have taken the time to wrap your hands or something? Or maybe slip some iron in your glove like you did in that Vegas fight—then maybe I’ll actually FEEL your punches.”

Bad Boy’s face went stormy. “That Vegas shit was a goddamn lie!” he snarled, charging in again. “And if you wanna feel something, bitch, feel this!”

The crowd winced in discomfort as their champ began truly unloading on the poor hapless blonde woman. What had started out to be a sparring match had turned into a slugfest, with Frankie pulling all the stops, punishing his defenseless opponent with a brutal barrage of punches, battering at her face and gut, alternating between the two. Strangely, however, the blonde refused to fall, each blow rocking her back a little less with each hit, despite the champ’s striking power. As Frankie began to pant from the effort, sweat dotting his face and arms, the woman began to grin wickedly, no longer even bothering to hold her hands up.

Frankie stumbled back, breathing heavily, glaring at her in pure unfiltered fury. “What the fuck is up with this?!?” he yelled. “What are you, some kind of human punching bag? Ain’t you even gonna fight back?”

“Oh? Is it my turn now?” the woman asked, shifting back into a fighting stance again. “You said earlier you wanted to show off to the crowd a bit, so I didn’t want to interrupt you. But if you’re saying you’re ready to actually fight now,” she said in a low voice, sprinting forward, “then by all means, let’s go!”

WHAM!

The crowd let out a collective gasp as the blonde struck back with a single straight jab, catching Frankie just underneath the jut of his chin. The blow, seemingly nothing more than a simple tap, apparently held more than sufficient power, however, as the young black man stumbled back several steps, before, eyes crossing, he slid bonelessly to the mat, out cold. Silence rang out through the gym as the onlookers stared in disbelief. Their champion, a professional boxer, floored with one punch from a virtual unknown. Saying nothing, the woman walked to the edge of the ring and slid back out through the ropes, walked over to her gym bag, gathered up her belongings and walked to the door.

“I guess it’s a good thing this was just a ‘sparring match’,” she said over her shoulder, pausing at the door, “otherwise I’d be leaving with the belt. Tell the champ when he wakes up that his footwork is shit, his left is weak, and he needs to work on his guard, or Jones is going to flat out murder him on pay per view this Sunday.”

Janet Shaw let out a long deep breath as she stood underneath the shower back in her apartment. Her trip down to the local gym to work out and relieve some angst hadn’t been as cathartic as she’d hoped, although knocking out the loudmouth bastard in the ring with a single punch had certainly felt good. Still, she’d managed to restrain herself, despite the urge she’d felt to pound him and everyone in the building into paste. And with her powers as a Super, she could have done so, literally. So, maybe therapy was actually working.

“Hmph... as if,” she muttered venomously, taking a moment to rub some shampoo into her golden blonde hair, or rather, the long thick stripe of it that was left, running from the very center of her head in a mohawk, leading down to the small of her back ending in a ponytail. The shaved sides of her head felt a little stubbly—might be time to shave it down again, she mused idly—and she held her head under the spray for several seconds, rinsing out the lather, before emerging, shaking her head vigorously, and turning off the water.

She’d always been something of a tomboy, even as a child. When she’d come out as a lesbian in her teenaged years it had been a surprise to no one at all. Still, even with her new fascination with pumping iron and building up her muscles, Frankie’s comment from earlier still stung. She paused, taking a moment to glance at herself in the mirror, her naked form still wet and slightly pink from her shower. She was definitely all woman; granted, she looked a little butch, her jawline was a bit square, the tats running along her shoulder and right arm just screamed ‘gangster’, and the forty-two inch biceps and quads certainly didn’t qualify as ‘girly’, but she was still curved in all the right places, and her thirty-eight triple D’s certainly fit well with her frame.

“Huh. Mannish, my ass,” she grumbled, padding barefoot out of the bathroom into her bedroom, dropping lightly onto her bed. “Dumb punk wouldn’t know a REAL woman if she fell into his damned lap.” She felt the temptation to head back out to the gym again and invite him back here to her place just to PROVE how much of a woman she was... but she squashed that notion easily enough. Her penchant for sadomasochism was what got her into trouble in the first place, after all. She ran a hand idly along the tattoo on her arm, recalling her past...

She still remembered the day she’d been sentenced to two years in prison. Aggravated assault and battery, they’d called it. Her lawyer, a thin, weak, milktoast excuse of a man, had assured her repeatedly that everything would be okay, that there was nothing to worry about, that he knew what he was doing... but in retrospect, she should have known he was just afraid she’d snap his scrawny little neck. And, looking back, if she’d known what was coming, she probably would have.

It had all been so unfair, anyway! Two years for whipping and caning that whiny little BITCH Billy raw and bloody while diddling herself to orgasm to the sounds of his pitiful screaming. Of course, not a word was mentioned about rape or sexual assault, primarily because the fucker had been enjoying the HELL out of his torment at the time, cumming just as hard as she had from the abuse. And, granted, his reaction HAD been conditioned into him after several weeks of said abuse, but it didn’t change the fact that he’d enjoyed what was being done to him.

And of course, it hadn’t mattered one iota that SHE was as much a victim in things as Billy Boy! She herself had been brainwashed, and sent to recruit him and several others in the city at the behest of her Mistress! She was a fucking LESBIAN for goodness sakes! Did they actually think she’d have spent all that time playing around with that rugged specimen of non-manliness if she’d been in her right mind?!? Apparently, the judge and jury had believed so. Worse, in the aftermath of everything that had happened at that time, with all the high-level administrators, councilmen and police that had been enslaved, the court had decided that someone needed to pay. And she was the lucky person chosen as the scapegoat.

Two years. Saying it aloud, it didn’t seem like a very long time. Just two years, right? A mere eyeblink in the grand scheme of things, right? Wrong! Fucking wrong! When you’re a young woman, fresh out of college, just beginning your life, two years seemed like an eternity. Not to mention the fact that her future was utterly destroyed, any chance of having a successful business career tanked by the criminal record she now carried. And she wasn’t sent to some minimum security resort to spend her time, oh no! Considering the ‘violent nature of her crimes’, she was placed in the maximum security penitentiary like a hardened criminal! Adding in the fact that she saw herself as the victim, being punished unfairly for things out of her control, and it made for one very angry woman.

Luckily, her undisclosed powers as a Super had given her an edge. After getting razzed for being a ‘newb’, she’d made a show of calling in the toughest woman in her cell block, provoking her into a fight... and them beating the ever-loving SHIT out of her! After that, the other women had given her a wide berth, and even the guards approached her warily. By the time she’d been released two years later, her entire outlook had changed dramatically...

It was definitely a life lesson, she thought grimly as she slid on her blouse, buttoning up her jeans. In this world it’s every man or woman for himself. It’s like the fucking jungle—only the strong survive, and the weak just get stomped flat and trampled underfoot. She stood up and made her way down the hallway. Twenty-five years ago, I was a victim. I let others dictate what would happen to me. Well, no more! I’ll never be anyone’s victim ever again.

Turning towards the kitchen, however, she paused, her gaze drawn back to her study, the tiny office she’d set up in the unoccupied second bedroom. Despite her words about never again playing the role of the victim, she couldn’t help but think of her past every time she passed that room. Inside was The Board, the large mass of articles, newspaper clippings, and data she’d collected over the past several months, occupying the same room she’d once ‘entertained’ Billy. In a way, it was strangely fitting that she housed what she now thought of as her ‘life’s work’ in that room. Stepping through the doorway, she walked slowly to the far wall, staring up at the center of the Board, glaring heatedly at the picture in the very center, where all the lines were pointed.

“You...” she growled softly, hands clenching slightly. “You’re the one behind all this. You’re the reason I lost my job... the reason why I went to jail. The reason why I live in this run-down little hovel of an apartment working nights as a security guard.” Her teeth clenched tightly as her vision ran red... red as the hair of the woman in the picture. “You ruined my life. But I intend to return the favor. By the time I’m done, you’ll be the one that’s ruined!”

Her therapist called her obsessed. And, well, maybe she was. Over the past several weeks since the woman’s return, she’d followed her comings and goings, tracked her movements, and learned well her patterns. She’d quietly observed her from afar, recording and documenting her conversations, watching her stealthily without the redheaded BITCH even knowing she was there. She’d learned all about her friends and comrades, studied their strengths and weaknesses, and at last, had come up with a way to take them all down. Still, she’d been hesitant to put her plan into motion. Rationality had warred with her obsession, her endless anger, and borderline insanity, holding her back from taking that final step.

Until today.

Her confrontation with Bad Boy Burton had provided just the push she needed, reminding her once again about the way life worked. It was kill or be killed, eat or be eaten. And really, the only thing holding her back from her revenge was herself.

But not anymore, Janet vowed silently, staring at the picture of her most hated enemy. The photo of Venus Satore. You cost me my future, she thought furiously, before turning away and leaving the room. Now I’m going to make sure you have none!