Breaking the Hero

Author's Note:

Breaking the Hero was originally published on Kindle Unlimited. After eighteen uneventful months, it was removed. The mixture of femdom erotica, super-powered violence, and mind control, fell afoul of Amazon's vague content guidelines.

This was my first published novella, and it's a little rough around the edges. I may rewrite or re-use elements of this story in the future, but for now, I have decided to make the original version available on castempress.com for free.

Please enjoy, and remember this is a fantasy. Almost everything described in this story would be wrong to do in real life.

- G. F. Savidge, April 2018



Part One: The Body

I wake naked and shackled. Being chained up is not a new experience in my line of work. I flex and pull against the chains, expecting them to snap like twigs, but nothing happens. Now that is a new experience.

I’m in a polyhedral chamber like a giant honeycomb, made of hexagonal panels, filled with a lattice of smaller, gold hexagons. The shackles around my wrists and ankles are the same color as the walls, each connected via a thick chain to a gold hexagon. The boundary is seamless, as if the chains grew out of the wall, one link at a time.

A thick collar around my neck is made from the same material as the shackles, but has no chain. The metal restraints are cold and itchy, as if coated with a million tiny, squirming tentacles.

The chains are too short to allow me to sit. I pull against them, straining with every ounce of strength I have. I can bench press a main battle tank without breaking a sweat, but I can’t budge these restraints a fraction of an inch.

The chamber is empty and I don’t remember how I got here. I don’t recognize the design, so it’s not one of my regular enemies, unless they’ve stumbled across new alien technology. It happens.

Stripping me naked is a fresh move. I don’t know how they removed my super-suit. It was a gift from an alien empress and the material is bonded to me at a molecular level. The strength or technology needed to strip it off would be fearsome. It has to be someone new.

My captor appears in the middle of the chamber in a flash of red light. She’s dressed in a black and red body suit that covers everything from toes to neck. The material shimmers like latex and clings to the curves of her body like a micron-thin layer of liquid metal.

Her physique is toned and muscular, the kind of body that requires intense dedication to both diet, exercise and banned supplements. Her breasts are large and firm, and I assume they’re implants given her otherwise lean muscularity.

Her muscles are nothing compared to mine, but I have the advantage of superpowers. I haven’t stepped inside a gym in ten years, but I ripple with muscles like steel cables. All thanks to the accident that made me the world’s mightiest hero. The world just isn’t fair.

Her black and red, knee-high boots have six inch heels that taper to a stiletto point. I’m surprised she can walk in them at all, let alone with such a confident stride.

She snaps her fingers. The chains attached to my shackles retract into the wall as if being reabsorbed. I try to stand my ground, but I can’t resist being dragged back until I’m pinned against the wall, my feet six inches above the floor. I’m mounted on the wall like an insect in a museum.

My eyes are level with her nose. She grabs my chin with a black-gloved hand and pushes my head back against the wall. Her lips are glossy with an even brighter shade of red than her hair. I’ve never seen this woman before, and she’s stunning enough I would have remembered.

“Who are you?” I ask.

She releases my jaw and slaps me. My cheek stings from the blow. It’s been a long time since I felt pain, she must have drained or blocked my powers. That explains why I can’t break my chains. I’m aware of my nakedness in a way I wasn’t when I thought I was still invulnerable.

“What do you want?”

She slaps me again, harder. The pain is much more than a sting this time.

“You’re going to regret this when I get my powers back.” It’s empty rhetoric, but it’s the kind of thing I’m obligated to say.

She laughs and I’m surprised her laugh is pleasant, almost melodic. “You still have your powers.” Her voice is confident, with a trace of an accent I can’t identify.

She’s lying. At full strength, no bonds on Earth can hold me, and no mere woman can hurt me. I would only feel a slap in the face if she had superpowers, and there are no women on Earth with superpowers.

“Bullshit. What have you done to me?”

“Nothing,” she says, “I’m just a lot stronger than you.”

I snort. “You’re a woman.”

“You noticed?”

She strikes a pose: arms clasped tight behind her arched back, breasts pushing up against the thin material of her suit. I stare at the outline of her nipples and surrounding aureoles. It’s like her suit is painted on.

I’m aroused and it’s too late to do anything about it. Not particularly heroic.

She wraps one hand around my semi-erect dick. The firm touch of slick latex brings me to full hardness in a second. She strokes me a few times until I shake with arousal. “This is going to be easy,” she says.

“Tell me who you are,” I say.

“None of your business. You can call me Mistress.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Never.”

“You will.”

I’m taken aback by her casual disrespect. Villains want to take credit for taking me down, so they’re never shy about revealing their names. She doesn’t seem to care.

“What do you want from me, you harpy?”

She slaps me so hard she breaks a bone. Now I’m worried. Even without my powers, she shouldn’t be able to do that. She may have been telling the truth about being superpowered.

“Everything,” she says.

She speaks five words in a slithering language I’ve never heard before. “The ritual has begun. In five days, you will belong to me.”

“What are you babbling about?” I try to keep panic from my voice. She’s talking about some kind of magic spell. I haven’t run into magic often, but it’s always been unpleasant.

“I’m going to tell you because it’s part of the ritual. The victim must be aware of what’s being done to them.”

I’m not happy that she’s using the word “victim” to refer to me.

She continues, “According to the precepts of the ancient ones, the five aspects of the soul are: the body, the voice, the mind, the self, and the will. Having all five into harmony is the path to enlightenment or subservience.”

“Stupid, new-age crap,” I say.

She smiles, baring her pristine white teeth like a shark. “Every day, I will break one of your aspects. When all five are broken, you will be my slave, with no will of your own. Your sole purpose in life will be to serve me.”

I snort. “You’ll never make me your lap dog.”

“You’re overconfident. That will make it easier to break you. At the start of each twenty-four hour period, I will explain what I intend to do, so you know how to stop me. If I fail to break any of the five aspects within a day, your freedom will be assured.”

“If you tell me how to stop you, it doesn’t seem you have much of a chance.”

“Don’t be so sure,” she says. “The ritual rarely fails. The odds are in my favor and the further along we get, the greater my advantage.

I’m tired of hearing her talk. “So what are we doing?”

“Today I’m going to break your body, figuratively and literally. I will break you by besting you in unarmed combat, and also by controlling part of you from a distance. If I do this, I will assume total control of your body. If you stop me, you will be free.”

It sounds like gibberish, but if it’s an excuse for some old-fashioned fisticuffs, bring it on. She may have a slap like a thunderbolt, but they don’t call me the world’s mightiest hero for nothing. I’m the strongest, toughest, fastest superhuman the world has ever known. She doesn’t stand a chance.

“Let’s go,” I say.

The shackles open and I drop to the floor. My wrists and ankles are red and itchy from the restraints. As I examine the welts, she decks me with an uppercut I don’t see coming. I crash into the ceiling hard enough to leave me dazed. I fall, wishing for the hundredth time I could fly.

She meets me half way, as if gravity were a minor inconvenience to her. She wasn’t lying about having superpowers. I’m in mid-air when she hits me in the chest with a solid right hook that breaks a couple of ribs and sends me flying. I hit the wall and slide to the floor like a cartoon cat. She floats down and stands in the center of the room, arms crossed in front of her chest as if daring me to attack.

She’s strong enough to hurt me, and she’s fast enough to hit me, which is a dangerous combination. Let’s find out if she can take it as well as she dishes it out. I charge with a roar and drive my fist into her shoulder. I’ve never hit a woman before, and I’m wary about going straight for the face.

I shouldn’t have worried. She’s the hardest thing I’ve ever punched, and I once decked a robot made of pure neutronium. My hand blossoms with pain. I think I’ve broken every bone in my fist.

She grabs the wrist below my ruined hand and spins me around her head like a child’s toy. The bones in my arm fracture and I’m afraid she’s going to tear my arm off. Before that happens, she lets go and I hurtle into the wall, moving faster than a bullet. I don’t even make a dent as the top of my skull cracks.

“How you doing there, slugger?” Her tone is mocking.

I’m not sure what to do. My right arm is useless and I don’t want to risk my left unless I’m sure I can make the shot count. I get to my feet and approach, cautious and alert. I’ve never had to be a skilled fighter with a right hook like a howitzer, and I don’t really know what I’m doing.

She disappears in a flash of red light and reappears behind me. She puts a hand on each shoulder and pushes me to my knees. I can’t resist. It’s like an entire planet is pressing down on me. I try to escape her grasp, but she’s too strong.

She flips me onto my back. Before I can react, she squats on my chest, her thighs clamped tight around my torso. I try to pry a knee away with my good hand, but I might as well be trying to shift the moon with a crazy straw. She squeezes her thighs and my ribs break one after the other. Each snap of bone is a reminder of how much stronger than me she is.

I worry she’s going to squeeze me like a human ThighMaster until my insides burst. If I’m going to try anything, it has to be now. I swing with my left, driving my fist into her face with all the strength I can muster. It’s not enough. She doesn’t flinch from the blow, but my fist is reduced to a bloody tangle of torn flesh and broken bones.

The press of her iron thighs and my shattered ribs make it impossible for me to take a breath. My torso is a tapestry of pain and the only hope of relief is that I will lose consciousness soon. Before that, she releases her thighs and floats up. As I take an agonizing, shallow breath, she spins around. She lowers herself back onto my chest, pressing her round, latex-coated ass into my face. She smells like jasmine.

I don’t have time to enjoy either the pleasant scent or the outstanding view before she breaks my left and right femurs with a pair of crushing blows. I scream and she slides back so her crotch covers my mouth. She presses down to muffle my cries with her latex-covered pussy. This seems to excite her. She grinds against my jaw, her rhythm getting faster the more I scream. I bite back and try to keep it in, but she twists my knees until they crack and I can’t help myself but roar in agony. She lets out a pleasured moan as she absorbs my cries of pain inside of her.

When I was a kid, before I got my superpowers, I fell off my bike and broke my arm. Until now, that’s the most pain I’ve ever been in. This is so far beyond that, I don’t even know if “pain” is the right word for it. My jaw cracks like eggshell under the relentless grind of her pussy.

She gets to her feet and stands over me. I can’t move and I can’t talk. The shackles fly from the nearest wall and snap fast around my wrists and ankles. The chains retract, dragging my broken body across the floor and slamming it against the wall. I’m pinned tighter than before, close to being torn apart.

“I’ve broken your body,” she says.

I try to curse, but all I can manage is a throaty gurgle. Even worse than being broken and humiliated is that part of me is turned on by it. A secret fantasy of mine has come to life, and even though the reality of it is much darker than I could have imagined, it’s what I wanted. Her hips sway as she approaches. I’ve been beaten half to death by her, but she’s so damned sexy, I can’t help wonder what it would be like to fuck her. I correct myself: be fucked by her.

A hidden seam opens and her suit splits apart to a point just above her pussy. I can see a hint of bright red pubic hair. Half-concealed and half-revealed, her breasts are magnificent, her cleavage a deep valley I yearn to bury my ruined face into. She bites her lower lip and raises an eyebrow. Can she read my mind? Does she know how turned on I am, in spite of - or because of - my predicament?

She doesn’t have to read my mind. My dick hardens, eager to betray my feelings. There’s no pain from my arousal. She didn’t break my pelvis or damage my genitals when she was beating the rest of me into hamburger. Too late, I realize this is part of her damned ritual. She wanted to control part of my body from a distance, and she’s certainly controlling the size of my dick with her striptease.

I try to suppress my arousal. I try to remember this woman is my enemy, she’s spent most of the time I’ve known her beating the crap out me. That just makes it worse, reminds me of how strong she is. The fantasy of being dominated by a powerful woman unleashes primal desires I can’t hold back.

She moistens a gloved finger in her mouth, and slides it down her flat stomach towards her pussy. I close my eyes and try to think of things that bore me: baseball statistics, the rules of cricket, The Three Stooges. It’s too late. She’s close enough for me to smell the scent of her own arousal, blended with a hint of jasmine. I remember her ass pressing into my face and my dick becomes as hard as granite.

She speaks a single word in the language I don’t know and something changes. I’m detached from my body. Am I finally slipping into unconsciousness?

“Open your eyes,” she whispers.

My eyes open. She’s so close I could nail her with a headbutt. I doubt it would do any good, but I want her to know I still have some fight left in me. I try to assault her, but nothing happens. I can’t move my head, even though nothing is holding it back.

The shackles release and I drop to the ground. I topple over on my side, unable to make even the smallest effort to stay upright. I’m not paralyzed: I can feel the weird metal floor beneath me and the squirming metal collar around my neck, but my body ignores every command I give it. It’s impossible, but as a superhero I stumble from one impossible situation to the next.

I get to my knees, the best I can manage on my ruined legs, but I’m not the one who initiates the movement. I’m a puppet on invisible strings. I shuffle around and face the wall. I hit my head against it. It hurts, but I do it over and over again, against my will. I keep slamming my head against the wall until my eyes fill with blood, unable to stop.

I feel her breath on the back of my neck. “I win the first round,” she whispers in my ear. “Your body is mine.”

Part Two

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