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From: CobaltJade@aol.com
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Subject: {ASSM} [NEW] Paragon vs. Plastica  7/15  (M/F, F/F, superhero, bondage, D/s, mc, statue)
Date: Tue, 24 Sep 2002 20:10:03 -0400
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Paragon vs. Plastica

by Cobalt Jade (cobaltjade@aol.com)


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. This work may be archived only with the author's 
permission.  Charging a fee for this story, or publishing without author 
credit or this notice violates my copyright.

The complete story may be read at my websites: 

http://members.aol.com/cobaltjade

OR

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/~cobaltjade




Chapter 7:  Defenses Down


*Sweet Goddess, no! Please don't let it end like this!*

Cinnabar struggled vainly against the confines of her plastic tomb. The 
vibrator squirmed inside her, stimulating her against her will; with every 
silent pant she lost precious oxygen. Helplessly orgasming, tears streaming 
from her eyes, she could only stare bleakly ahead as the conveyer belt 
carried her to her doom. She couldn't have been rendered any more impotent. 

*White Rose, come quickly. I need you!*

She had no way of knowing if the telepath could even hear her. Her only hope 
was to send out her silent cry again and again, like a beacon, to give her 
friend something to home in on. But the continual orgasms muddled her mental 
summons, turning them to gibberish. How had Plastica known sexual stimulation 
would quash her telepathic powers? Please, Ishtar, let Allison trace her! 

Shadow fell across her vision as the conveyer carried her inside the vacuum 
chamber. *Oh Goddess, no, not this...*

The door closed with a heavy thump, sealing itself. Warning lights flashed to 
red as the air began to be pumped out. After she was frozen a polymer spray 
would hit the cube from all angles, sealing her corpse inside a sterile 
vacuum, where she would remain forever as a bauble for the sorceress to gloat 
over. 

*No! *she thought desperately. *It can't end this way, it can't! Not as a 
trophy for that evil woman's playroom... *

The thought of it sent her over the edge. Her insides quaked as another 
orgasm hit her, shrill pulses of pleasure that annihilated her again and 
again, the debilitating sensations more like death than an affirmation of 
pleasure. A golden glow fuzzed the edges of her vision, turning to red, then 
a swimming fog of black. She blacked out briefly.

She came to, gasping, realizing the severity of her plight. The chamber was 
very cold. The film of sweat that had been generated by her fear had 
vanished; all the moisture was being sucked out of her. In another minute her 
air would be gone completely. 

It was then she realized was faced with the hardest choice she ever had to 
make. She could remain conscious and continue to call Allison, but would lose 
oxygen as she orgasmed. Or she could put herself into the metabolism-slowing 
trance the goddess had taught her. Without breathing, she could exist in 
stasis for several hours. The trance had saved her life before, even though 
temperatures had fallen to -40 below. It might buy her some time. 

But it wouldn't save her. Her heart fell. The temperature in the vacuum 
chamber would approach absolute zero in minutes. When enough moisture was 
sucked out of her body, she would die.

What should she do? Should she put her life in the hands of fate? Did she 
truly trust in the natural goodness of the universe?

She thought for a second that stretched into hours, then made her choice.

 She could enter the trance; it would buy her ten more minutes of life. At 
the rate the chamber was cooling, it might not even be that. She felt her 
limbs go numb as the temperature reached freezing, then approached zero. Her 
oxygen was nearly gone. Closing her eyes, she mentally chanted the ancient 
mantra. If she had chosen correctly, she would wake in safety. If not, she 
would sleep forever.

#

Nemiah's wings beat with deep, furious strokes through the cool night air. 
His forelegs were extended, claws curled like scythes. Allison rode his back 
like a grim avatar carved from ivory and lightning: Cinnabar needed her. Her 
calls had been growing progressively weaker and more fragmented for the last 
four minutes, but Allison had traced them to their source: a featureless 
factory surrounded by chemical tanks, powerlines, railroad tracks. 

BONDMADCHEN MANNEQUINS, the largest of the tanks announced. Plastica's 
hideout.

Nemiah landed lightly on the roof, folding his massive wings. Allison slipped 
off his back. Cinnabar was inside, but where? The calls hadn't come for two 
minutes now. If whoever held her had harmed her --

She saw an open door and sprinted lightly inside, Nemiah following. The door 
led to a series of wide catwalks above the plant. She stepped gingerly onto 
the metal grate, creeping silently down the suspended corridors. The silent 
vats below her melded into darkness. In the distance was a brightly lit area, 
and they both headed toward it. 

Together they looked down on the scene below, lost in the shadows at the top 
of the plant. Almost directly below them was a large vacuum chamber; plumes 
of white vapor and a flashing display pad indicated it was in use. A broad 
conveyer led up to its entrance. Allison looked far to her right and saw a 
metal worktable on which the torn remains of Cinnabar's clothes were 
scattered. Her gaze went back to the machine. A metal ramp led from the 
chamber's far end, at the end of which was a unsealed crate carrying a 
Federal Express sticker addressed to a location in Greece. In a chair before 
the crate, leaning back with her long legs propped up on the ramp, was a 
tall, slim woman nude but for a pair of black vinyl boots and gloves. A bag 
of half-eaten potato chips lay beside her. She was reading a bondage 
magazine, one hand idly stroking her crotch.

Plastica. It could be no one else.

In an instant Allison knew what had happened. Cinnabar had been captured, and 
she was inside that fiendish *thing,* but in whatever state of 
transformation, she couldn't guess.

She had to stop it!

She slipped onto Nemiah's back, giving him a terse mental order. With a roar 
he sprang from the catwalk and landed on the top of the chamber, ripping 
through the layers of metal, composite and plastic with his diamond-hard 
claws.

Freezing vapor flew from the ruptured pipes, and the chamber itself exploded 
as it repressurized. Allison quickly threw up a force bubble to protect them 
from the shards of flying metal. Cinnabar flew past them in the flaming 
debris, sealed inside a clear cube of plastic. || Grab her, Nemiah! || 

Nemiah's wings working desperately to hold his balance. He managed to catch 
the ring in his jaws and flew up, up, far faster than the growing 
conflagration, to smash through the skylight and leap into the night air. In 
a few seconds he was well away, the night air whistling through his feathers. 
Allison clutched his back, his speed too great to ride as gracefully as she 
usually did. Had Plastica survived the explosion? More importantly, would 
Cinnabar survive whatever that bitch had done to her?

|| Cinnabar? ||  she ventured tentatively in mindspeech.

No reply.

Cinnabar's eyes were open, but she looked like she was dead. Allison extended 
a hand to touch the plastic cube. The surface was very cold; perhaps she was 
only frozen. In the distance, she saw another factory, one that made bread. 
It was in full operation this time of night and clouds of warm steam billowed 
out of its smokestacks. 

|| Nemiah, fly there, ||  she said. || Fly back and forth through the steam. 
|| 

Nemiah flew into the warm vapor, in and out, warming the plastic gently.

After many tense minutes Allison heard Cinnabar's faint mental call. || White 
Rose? || 

|| I'm here. And Nemiah, too. || 

|| Thanks, ||  Cinnabar said. || I was getting worried. || 

|| What happened? ||  She knew her tone sounded incredulous. || Cinn... why 
do you look like a plastic keychain ornament? || 

Cinnabar gave a weak laugh. Though feeble and forced, it was the best sound 
Allison had ever heard her make. || Plastica stunned me at the bank machine 
and took me here, to turn me into a lucite trophy. || 

|| We'll get you out of there, ||  Allison said with determination.

|| That will be difficult, ||  Cinnabar said, her mental tone faint and sad. 
|| This... this shell, it's hard as steel, and molded around my body. I can't 
eat and I can't drink. If I don't get out of it soon, I'll die. || 

|| We need Shana and her chemical lab, ||  Allison said.

|| Shana is Plastica's prisoner, too, ||  Cinnabar reminded her. || We need 
help.|| 

|| Right, ||  Allison said grimly, knowing they had to send for experts from 
outside the team. Always a risky business, as it meant exposure. || Don't 
worry. We'll find a way. || 

#

*Damn.*

Plastica kicked at a piece of twisted metal, sending it skittering across the 
floor. The vacuum chamber was a hulking, smoking mess. Luckily the factory's 
sprinkler system had doused it before nearby the plants called in an alarm. 
Blobs of flame-retardent foam covered the wreckage, courtesy of the back-up 
firefighting system. When working with volatile chemicals, you could never be 
too safe. Luckily her laboratory, and her mannequins, had been at the other 
end of the building and escaped damage.

Still, it was a helluva mess.

Luckily she'd been able to outrun the blast even in her four-inch spiked 
heels, flinging herself around a corner before the thing exploded. But she 
had lost Cinnabar.

The bottom fell out of her stomach fell as she remembered Kylasha. Plastica 
had promised her a trophy, and that trophy had been stolen from her. Kylasha 
might badmouth her to other criminals, or, god forbid, enact a revenge. 
Plastica had to get the cube back before Cinnabar died from dehydration and 
began to decay. Or the other members of her team figured out a way to free 
her.

Iza and Phanxine peeked timidly around the corner; they'd heard her screaming 
and made themselves scarce. Now they were back, to see if there was anything 
they could do. There wasn't. But like the best toadies they would continue to 
try to curry her favor, in the hopes she might drop them a crumb or two of 
consideration. "Boss?"

Plastica grunted. "About time you idiots got back."

"Boss, what do want us to do? Do you want us to go down to the Fairfax 
address and clean it out?"

Plastica considered. Team Paragon could have found out about her 
mannequin-making operation; after all, they'd known where the factory was. 
But with their leader helpless, Plastica thought it unlikely they'd be taking 
any action, at least right now. "Go ahead," she decided. "But be cautious. 
Keep processing, but call me immediately if you notice anything or anyone 
suspicious."

They nodded and left, less cocksure than they'd been few days before, when 
the operation was daring and new. Plastica gave the wreckage one last look, 
sighed, and went to get cleaned up. She had to put in an appearance at 
Sexateria as Paula Jean, and she was smudged all over with soot and had a few 
first-degree burns on her face and arms. Even her hair had been singed, which 
meant a haircut and dye job until she made herself a new set of follicles. 
Implanting all the individual hairs took ages.

She tried to look on the bright side. At least Cinnabar was out of the way, 
which meant that Team Paragon was rudderless. Heartened, she jumped in her 
lipstick-red Maserati. If Plastica wanted to get her back, she could. After 
all, she wasn't exactly going anywhere.

#

"We can't just sit here. We have to do something."

All heads turned toward Gina. Her fist slammed the table.

"Look at her!" Gina waved her hand at Cinnabar's silent, entombed form. "If 
we don't do something now, next time Plastica will do something worse. To any 
of us, not just poor Cinn!"

Lori glanced guiltily away from the cube. All morning they'd been frantically 
trying to cut into the plastic, trying acids, carbide-steel saws, sonic 
drills, all to no effect. The material was indissoluble; not even the 
diamond-tipped drills had made much of a scratch. And all the while Cinnabar 
kept staring at them, eyes wide, knowing that she was trapped, and that she 
was doomed. 

Only Allison could communicate telepathically with Cinnabar -- the two 
sharing a mind-link from years ago -- and through her, Cinnabar told them to 
put in a call to the West Coast branch of ALOSH. But even their experts were 
stymied. After working all day the scientists had only managed to break off 
only the tiniest chips for analysis back at their labs. As for Cinnabar, all 
they could do was set up a portable stasis field that would keep her alive 
until a cure could be found. She now shimmered inside a second cube, the 
stasis generators humming gently to keep her there. Inside, she would neither 
blink nor breathe nor age. She would stay in there forever if a solution 
couldn't be found. 

It was repeat of what had happened to Photon, only this time the victim was 
her friend. Lori's worst nightmare had come to life. She felt tears come to 
her eyes. *No!* she thought. *I won't give up, none of us will!*  To make 
things worse, Noelani was missing and hadn't called in.

"This is too strange," Allison said. She didn't have to say there were only 
three of them now. Cinnabar was out of commission, and so was Shana; that 
left her as third in command, a position she was uncomfortable with. "Where 
did you leave her, Lori?"

"She was at Paula Jean's condo," Lori said. "I flew off to warn Cinn, and she 
stayed behind in case Plastica came back."

"Plastica never went back," Allison said. "That's obvious. Maybe Noelani went 
chasing someone else."

"Or is with Plastica," Lori said darkly.

"Plastic Fantastic is opening their new agency tomorrow," Gina said. "I'll 
pose as a model and let myself be captured. Once I'm in the mannequin factory 
I can look around."

"Too dangerous," Allison said with a heavy shake of her head. "You know what 
her plasticizing gas can do."

Gina laughed. "I'm Chrystar. Do you really think it will hurt me?"

"All right," Allison said, though Lori could see she felt ambivalent about 
it. She closed her eyes briefly. Lori thought she was trying to communicate 
with Cinnabar, but that was impossible through the stasis field. "Go ahead, 
but be careful. I'm going to make a call." 

Lori glanced at the silver business card that waited in front of the phone. 
FEM-FANTASTIQUE, INC., it said, in red foil script. A team of superheroines 
on the East Coast. The director of ALOSH had recommended them as they'd had 
lots of experience in dealing with villains like Plastica. Allison began to 
tap out the number. "Lori, I want you to go back to the condo, see if you can 
find any traces of Noelani. She may be on to something , or --"

She didn't have to finish: *Or she may have wound up like Cinnabar.* "All 
right," Lori said. It would give her something to do besides worry. 

#

This was too good.

Plastica gloated over the plasticized form of Blue Cymbidium. What a pleasant 
surprise she'd had when she got back to the condo! It was such a simple trick 
she wondered how any of the bitches had fallen for it, but maybe IQ was 
inverse to T&A. Which the half-Hawaiian, half-black beauty certainly had, in 
abundance. 

Plastica had fresh plaskin bandages on her face and hands, but for the sake 
of her art she would suffer a little pain. 

She picked up her scissors and cut off Blue Cymbidium's blue-violet leotard. 
She was the most exotic -- and sensuous -- of the Team, with her 
coffee-and-cream complexion and slightly slanted sable eyes. She was also the 
most petite, though her muscles bespoke of extensive martial arts training. 
Plastica wouldn't want to face her in a fight, but then, she didn't have to. 
She had other means of dealing with her enemies.

The spangled fabric fell to the floor, exposing luscious, uptilted breasts 
with dark brown nipples. Happily the superheroine hadn't lost her long, dark 
hair. Plastica eliminated her pubic bush with a shot of depilatory foam but 
let the superheroine keep her thigh-high leather boots. She looked so much 
more kinky that way.

In fact...

Struck by another idea, Plastica began posing her. Her limbs responded with 
resistance, but the movement was smooth and not stiff. She let Blue Cymbidium 
keep the kneeling position but straightened her back and tilted her head back 
slightly. Her face was now upturned as if looking to Plastica for an order. 
Plastica then bent Blue Cymbidium's arms behind her back and tied her wrists 
together with a length of rough rope; this was for effect only, as Plastica 
knew she couldn't move on her own. Then she buckled a slave collar around the 
superheroine's neck with a leather leash that trailed down between her 
breasts, to lie on the ground before her in a perfect liquid line.

She stepped back to assess her work. Yes, much better. The superheroine 
looked the perfect slave, wrists crossed and tied, posture erect yet abject. 
Now for her face. Plastica pinched the Hawaiian beauty's eyelids closed and 
added the hint of a pout to her large, luscious lips. She looked like she was 
swooning in a stew of sexual submission. It tickled Plastica to think the 
real Blue Cymbidium would be filled with horror if she saw the picture she 
made.

"You're a work of art, honey," she said. "Better than Michelangelo, better 
than Rodin."

She donned her respirator hood and work gloves, then turned on the compressor 
pump. She lifted the nozzle of the airbrush gun and began to spray. The 
superheroine's smooth brown flesh was soon speckled, then spattered, then 
coated with bright blue-violet paint that covered her completely. Plastica 
walked all around her, changing direction and angle to spray her hair, her 
nipples, the crack of her ass. The paint was a chrysteel derivative; once it 
was dry the hard, shiny shell would hold the superheroine fast, encasing her 
forever in a glistening second skin.  

Submission in Blue, that's what she'd call it. It went perfectly with Blue 
Cymbidium's pose and even her name. 

Laughing, she set the nozzle down and wheeled the Blue Cymbidium sculpture 
over to join the Xenon one. She'd always known visual merchandising was the 
perfect art form.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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