June 24th, 5:10 PM
The goons had her now! They carried the Blue Lynx kicking and screaming over to the long table. They set her on top and spread out her arms and legs. The superheroine could only squeal and twist her torso as the men tied her wrists and ankles with thick rope. Once the tight knots were securely around her limbs, the men lashed the other ends of the rope to the table legs, rendering the once-confident superheroine totally HELPLESS.
"Looks like the TABLES have turned, Blue Lynx!" Brutus said.
The Blue Lynx sneered back. She tried lifting her arms and legs and could only get them an inch off the table. There are been just too many of them! Not even her karate could overcome six large men.
"Now make sure she's beaten," Caesar said. "Take away her weapons."
A goon put his hands around her back and unsnapped the clasp of her utility belt. He removed the belt from her waist and the men laughed at the Blue Lynx's horrified expression.
"You're going to pay for that!" she cried.
"Now, make sure she's TRULY beaten," Caesar whispered. "Take off her mask."
"No!" the Blue Lynx shouted, but it didn't matter. Goons were on her again in an instant. A pair of hands held down her head, two other pairs held down her shoulders. Brutus leaned over her and placed his fingers on her cheek. He waited a second, sexually excited by the sight of the superheroine squirming, and then brought his hand across her face, taking the Blue Lynx's mask with it!
"Oh my GOD!" Brutus yelled. "The Blue Lynx is... ERIN STEELE!"
The writer paused.
His heart was racing, his loins were aching, and he was hungry. He hadn't eaten since early this morning, when he'd gotten up to start his newest story.
He saved the document and closed his laptop, sighing. He hadn't gotten it quite right yet, he knew that. The first draft was always an adventure: he'd have to go back over this chapter, and the rest, to perfect all of the sexy details. But he had time. There was no need to rush this, especially with so much on the line.
He went to the fridge. It was nearly bare-- there was just a little bit of milk left in the carton, half a stick of butter, some stray pieces of fruit, and a couple cans of beer. He took an apple and one of the Budweisers and went back to his kitchen table, where he had sat alone for the last eight hours or so. He cracked open the beer and took a sip.
He was just a guy in his late twenties, slightly overweight, with frizzy overgrown hair and glasses. A beer-drinking white city hipster like any other, but for one peculiar hobby. Ever since he'd had first seen the news stories about the mysterious superheroine called the Blue Lynx, he had been obsessed, and when he was obsessed with something, he wrote about it. For the past half year he had used his free time to write fan fiction about the Blue Lynx: erotic stories of the superheroine being tortured and stripped and groped and fucked silly.
It was odd, he knew that, to write about a girl (she was really just a girl) who happened to be a real person in his city, doing real superheroine stuff, and to write about her in all of these twisted ways... but he couldn't help himself. There was just something about her: about the way she looked in that skintight blue-and-white costume, about her thick, shiny black hair, about her rippling muscles and firm, copious ass, about her sensuous voice (only caught on tape a few times... times the writer had saved, and savored), about her fearlessness and cockiness and tremendous superheroine abilities. She was perfect, as perfect as a woman got (her partner, the Black Bobcat, being a close second), and the writer celebrated that in the way he knew best: with twenty-some-odd stories placing her at the hands of the most sick and sadistic sexual monsters imaginable.
But up until very recently, there was a problem with his stories: authenticity. Nobody knew who the Blue Lynx was. The superheroine had kept her identity the most closely-guarded secret in town. There wasn't a journalist or criminal in town who'd even gotten close to figuring it out (at least as far as the writer knew), which made his fictionalized unmaskings seem a little... anti-climactic. Sure, the writer could make up names, and he did (he liked "Amber Raven," for some reason), but they never quite fit in right. He had discussed his problem with members of an online Superheroine Unmasking community, "Heroine Identity Theft," and their ideas hadn't been particularly helpful.
"Why don't you just unmask the Blue Lynx yourself?" someone had posted.
That, of course, was impossible. Even if there were some way to get the Blue Lynx to pay any attention to him at all, he had simply no chance of besting her in combat. She was fast and strong and cunning; the writer was slow and weak and had never been in a fight. He could set a trap, sure, but that would require the superheroine to come to the exact place he was at, which, again, didn't seem likely.
It bothered him deeply, not knowing the Blue Lynx's secret, and knowing that he would probably never know. After months of frantic speculation, the writer was on the verge of insanity... And then, he found a bizarre Donator page. "Find a Cure with Help from the Blue Lynx."
Someone, this weird lady, Regina Sunflower, had captured the Blue Lynx. And in exchange for donations, Regina was offering Blue Lynx-themed prizes: images of her tied up and naked, videos of her losing fights, and, the real coup de grace, information about the superheroine's secret identity.
It was like Satan himself had heard the writer's prayers. This was everything he wanted; it was like Regina Sunflower was inspired by his stories to create live-action versions! Of course he paid every amount as soon as he could, putting off food and beer and utilities and every other obligation until he had it: the knowledge he had been craving. The knowledge that the Blue Lynx as none other than the mayor's daughter, Erin Steele.
It was too good to be true. Erin Fucking Steele. He had seen her on TV before. She was a radiant beauty, poised and athletic, the girl-next-door in some kind of heavenly neighborhood. A goody-two-shoes, for sure, but with a wild side. An ambitious, pretty young thing looking to do her father one better, and fight the city's criminals mano-a-mano. It all made sense now. He had found the missing piece, and it slotted into the rest of his puzzled seamlessly.
The challenge now was writing this story, the story that would tell the whole world what he knew, the story that would make him the most notorious writer of erotic fiction in the country. He finished the apple and opened his laptop, scanning his newest chapter for mistakes. The grammar seemed fine, but something else didn't. He hadn't gotten it right-- he hadn't drawn it out enough, this final moment, this unmasking. He knew he had to scrap it and try again.
He moved to delete the file and heard a knock on his door.
"The fuck?" he thought. Nobody knocked on his door. Who the fuck knocked on doors?
He sighed and slowly got up from the table. He was about to go to the door when the door flew open with a crashing sound.
Two women walked into his house. Two women in spandex and boots and masks. Two superheroines.
"Oh my fucking God," the writer said.
It's like looking into a mirror
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