There's a variety of reasons someone becomes a cloak. Some become supervillains to avenge themselves on a hostile world. Others play out mad fantasies upon the populace to demonstrate the existential terror inherent in human existence. Some do it out of greed for money or power, others out of some noble yet twisted ideology. There's a million reasons to put on the dark cloak.

Me, I do it for the hot bitches.

Seriously, have you ever seen the trim supervillains get? Groupies up to their eyeballs! If you think some women get the hots for a whackjob behind bars who sliced up a few people, wait until you see how hot and bothered a lady can be when she meets a dark stranger in spandex and a penchant for world domination. Sure, the capes get their share of female admirers. A line of patter about "for great justice!' combined with solid abs under the costume is a reliable pick-up technique. But nothing beats it for getting a girl's freak on by doing the Big Bad Routine. You should see the comments women post on the SuperSpace pages of top dogs like Doctor Moebius and Captain Chaos. I've seen videos where you can see the girls jockeying to be chosen for hostage duty.

Not that I'm a playa at that exalted level yet. I'm still working my way up the rankings. Hey, everyone in the game has to do it. Some newbs think they can throw on a cheap Halloween costume and instantly become a master overlord. Shya, right. Going cloak takes time and dedication. A major-league villain like the Screaming Skull didn't hit his stride until his forties. So I'm patient--working capers I can handle, not letting the damsel distressing get out of hand, and networking. Networking is real important. Supervillains aren't the most sociable of sorts. Capes form teams and leagues. We cloaks do fragile alliances and brutal power-dominance relationships. Still, you really do have to reach out. That's why I hench. I know, lots of cloaks hate the idea. We've all been at the costumed minion stage, working for some assclown who sees us as disposable mooks. There's the temptation to big and nationwide as soon as you can operate on your own. Big mistake. Henching for an established evil mastermind gives you some security and a team of meatshi--er, loyal minions.

I was henching for Doctor Moebius when it all went down. This was during the Great New York Rumble last year, when the Doc tried to extort five billion from the financial services industry by threatening Wall Street with those giant cyborg sky-whales with lasers on their heads. You have to give credit to Moebius. The man has style. Not stable, but style. That's what's kept him in the game since the 30's. Also, awesome craft services. Hot and cold buffets, cute hostesses, the works. Nothing like heading back to the lair for some R&R after a hard day of terrorizing the innocent with prime rib waiting for you. I heart the Doc. Anywho, I was working secondary diversion duty during the Rumble. Doing pretty damn good if I say so myself. You can see me in the video of Hyper Lad getting taken down. That's me by the burning car. Grey body-armor with a helm and a mirrored visor, sort've Cobra Commanderish, with a black roquelaure and tabard. You can see my logo stitched in silver on the front--tentacles coiling around a stylized human brain. I designed it myself after my villain monicker, the Illithid.

Illithid? Mind flayer? Dungeons and Dragons, evil psionic brain eaters? Hello?

Le sigh. Yeah, I'm a geek.

So I'm taking a breather around the corner while Hyper Lad was about to be taken prison-bitch style by the Crusher. You probably didn't see that part of the footage. "Not suitable for broadcast", although it's been posted on YouTube plenty of times. I decided I wasn't going to be part of that scene. Let your freak flag fly in private, but fer chrissakes keep it in your pants on a caper. Professionalism. Which is why Crusher got distracted enough that the Vigilantors crippled him enough to slap the cuffs on his wrists. So, ignoring the unpleasant wet sounds coming from down the street, I'm feeling satisfied with my performance. I was in the zone during the take-down, avoiding Hyper Lad's superspeed flying kick just enough to nail him with a trancebolt. That's my gimmick, bolts of psionic energy that when they hit put the target into a mesmerizing trance. It's only for a few moments unless I'm in close contact or loose a sustained burst. It's enough to distract a cape or subdue a mundane. The trancebolt nailed Hyper Lad with enough effect that he super-sped right into a mailbox. Which is where the Crusher got him. So I lift up the visor a bit to sip a performance drink--capering is hard work, you have to hyrdrate---when the lightning bolt hits me.

In case you're wondering, being hit by lightning hurts like a motherfucker.

My armour saved me from the worst. After tangling with Storm Front last year, I tempest-hardened the electronics and buffed up the insulation. Even so the bolt had enough juice behind it to make me do the Taser Safety Dance. I barely dodged the next bolt. The audio dampeners in the helm muted the thunderclaps enough that I wasn't stunned by the flashbang effect. Up in the sky were two capes I hadn't seen before. Doc Moebius had briefed us on the Gotham hero and vigilante community and all the major cape teams who might respond. These women weren't in the files. Girls, actually. Pretty young, late teens. They wore similar uniforms: leotards, boots, fingerless opera gloves, domino masks to conceal their identities. Pretty generic look, although the sashes around their waist tied at the left hip were a nice touch. "Sparky" was a petite girl in dark blue with a silver sash. High-speed, low drag, not all that on top but with a dancer's lithe physique. Something about the eyes told me she was Asian--maybe one of the magical girls from Nippon. Her raven-dark hair roiled about her head like silk in a hurricane. Her companion in scarlet with bright yellow sash was decidedly bustier. Toned muscles flexed beneath her spandex. Her red hair streamed back behind her like a living flame. Which, may I mention it, was what was glowing around her bunched fists just like the electricity arcing around Sparky's hands.

"Get him, Tempest!" the redhead shouted.

"On it, Flare!"

Oh, fuck me sideways with a chainsaw.

I executed a suave martial arts move just before twin streams of flame and lightning turned the mailbox into abstract sculpture. I believe it's called "feets don't fail me now". Becoming a cloak flambe was not in my life plans, so screw dignity. Besides, I was still honouring my commitment to the Doc by drawing the capes away from the main action over Wall Street. I ran uptown with the two girls flitting behind me in mid-air. Did I mention I hate flyers? It's damn unfair for us earth-bound types. Every so often I fired a bolt from my TrancePistol at them to slow them down. The pistol is really stage-dressing--I can shoot a trancebolt from my hands, just like my enemies' powers--but it contains a special variant of cubic zirconium that us psionic types found could focus and store psi-energy. The art-deco TrancePistol also confuses an opponent thinking it's the source of my power. Anything for an edge in a fight. The flying menaces avoided my wild shots. Trancebolts aren't visible. But being concentrated mental energy they can be "felt" as dark bursts coming towards you. The erratic firing slowed my pursuers down, but it wasn't helping in the larger picture. Their flight powers let them outmaneuver me to set me up for a world of pain if their elemental blasts got a solid hit.

So I went Sun Tzu on them. Change the battleground. I cast an eye out for a confined space where they couldn't fly. Hostages would be a bonus. Bank, barber shop, sex boutique-- Hold on. Electricity. Insulation. Grinning behind my visor, I rolled over the hood of a car through the window of the sex shop. The cute brunette with the nose ring behind the counter gaped as the glass shattered. I trancebolted her in the head. She went down hard--getting bolted in the brain always zonks people out for several minutes. I didn't want a bystander getting hurt. It's kinda a cape sentiment, I know. It just seems bad for the image to get someone outside the fight hurt. Hostages, sure, that's cool. Sometimes you need a bargaining chip. Actual death or maiming is a little too much for me. I'm a trancer, not a killer, baby. 'Cides, she really was cute. Shame to waste that. Shuffling on hands and knees, I scuttled among the aisles looking for what I hoped the store stocked. Behind me I heard bootheels crunching on glass. Bad technique, girls, giving away your position. C'mon, c'mon, ah, there you are. I took several packets of the stuff off the shelf. While the capes split up to recon the store I charged up my internal psi-energies. I needed to incapacitate at least one of them.

From the next aisle I caught the sight of a slim leg sheathed in a knee-high blue boot. Popping up, I lashed out at Sparky. The expression on her face was priceless as she raised lighting-wreathed hands in an instinctive defensive gesture. The electricity shattered the bottles in my hands. The bottles of Liquid Latex. The light-show died as the rubber splashed all over her fingers. She backed up in a panic when her natural weapon was denied her. A weird thing, us metahumans often can only channel our powers one way. Psychological maybe. The Asian cape tried a showy muay thai kick that I ducked with ease. Great for the ring, not so great for the street. I swept her back leg out from under her and pinned her beneath me. She screamed before my gauntlet clamped over her mouth. My fingertips pressed into the sides of her head. With a grunt, I unleashed a pent-up wave of trance energy right into her brain. The zirconium in the fingertips augmented the charge. "Tempest" gurgled against my hand while she collapsed into a glassy-eyed heap.

The redhead yelled "No!" before reducing the shelves around me to so much flaming kindling. Hot-tempered? Get it? Flames, hot, ah, forget it. Out of villainous instinct I slung Tempest over my shoulder before charging out of the store. The gathered crowds gaped at the guy in the costume with a hot teen cape in his grasp. Seriously, doesn't get better than this. I halfway-hoped there was a news crew around to capture the moment. That image alone would up my cred. Assuming I survived. Damn it, that last flamestrike nearly roasted me! This Flare was really losing it. Erratic blasts, no concern for her friend over my shoulder. A lot of cars ended up wrecks after her blasts torched the gas tanks. Bonus I guess, massive property damage is photogenic and the smoke bought me some cover. But seriously, this cape was out of control. I could even hear her crying. Get your big girl panties on, willya, kid?

I didn't dare to a stand-off. Dramatic but stupid unless you had an escape route worked out. Not to mention I could hear sirens. Cops hate cloaks even more than they resent capes. The NYPD aren't your usual bunch of flatfoots either. They have resources that a lot of Third World nations lack. Their Metahuman Crime Emergency Response Teams have taken down a lot of supervillains on their own. Having an MCERT unit target me with beam rifles and metahuman troopers would mean a quick trip to the Fridge, the special holding cells at Rikers. I tried to radio for some help from the other Moebius henchmen. Unfortunately, Tempest's bugzapping had knocked out my communications suite. I was so going to dog Haxx0r for telling me this was "l33t" hardening. Frigging poseur, last time I trust that twitchy little gizmodo. My body started to feel the burn when I came into Central Park. People out watching the cape-vs-cloak spectacle fled when they saw me dash by with Little Miss Flare on my ass. The park got some new landscaping when she barbecued several trees. Desperate, I searched for some way to neutralize her powers like I did with her friend. Capes always have a weakness. Natural law.

Then I spotted the ice cream cart.

Flipping my prisoner into some nearby bushes, I whipped out the Glock I pack under the roquelaure for dicy situations. Crude but suprisingly effective to get a cape ducking and rolling. I usually don't pull it because lethal force always ups the ante. A cape who might normally take you in will get deadly in a hurry. With Flare's attitude I couldn't count on the usual cape good nature. Unfortunately, the bullets did squat. The lead slugs vaporized in the heat haze around the redhead. Neat trick. Luckily the gun distracted Flare enough to let me get a bead with my TrancePistol. The targeting reticle in my helm had not been fried. I only had a moment to fire, but got enough of a lock to hit her between the eyes. The crazy cape landed in a heap on the grass nearby. She was up almost immediately. The headshot didn't have much power behind it. No time to charge up. She was shaky, though. Shaky enough that I could grab her hair. Flare batted at my hands while I dragged her caveman-style to the ice cream cart. Fog poured out of the open hatch. I rammed her inside...right into the blocks of dry ice. Genius, total genius, cold should shut her right--

Ow.

Fuck.

Groggy, I came to about thirty yards from the cart. Well, remains of the cart. Should have remembered from science glass, dry ice suddenly sublimating with an influx of heat becomes rather volatile. I picked shards of metal out of my armour. Visor was cracked, a write off. Flare and Tempest lay in a heap together by the twisted carcass of the ice cream cart. Aside from splatters of Klondike Bars on their costumes and a few small cuts, they were unharmed. Typical. Capes always manage that, don't ask me how. I sank to my knees to catch my breath and consider what to do. Kill them, I guess. Against the brand I'm establishing, but sometimes you have to go hard-core. Absently I took off a gauntlet to caress one firm ass, then another, beneath the spandex. They didn't respond aside from sleepy mews; the trancebolts and shock knocked them right out for hours at least. Very nice. Very pretty. I really shouldn't, I didn't have the time. But, again, I'm in this game for the hot bitches. And there are traditions about what supervillains do with girl capes at their mercy.

Great thing about spandex, if you slice it up it makes good improvised bondage material. I cut off their leotards and used them to hogtie them. Trancebolts into each of their heads quieted down their struggles while their bodies arched. I gently touched between their thighs before lashing their knees together. Mmmm, nice. Very smooth, not just shaved. Full Brazillians, the current fad. Flare sleepily protested when I slid a finger into her. Definitely cherry. So's Tempest. Wow, these girls are young. Sixteen by the looks, high school girls. A little below the line but not enough for me to stop. Again, I'm a cloak. Evil. A wad of leotard jammed behind each set of pretty lips muffled their soft cries. I anchored them with strips cut from the crotch of their uniforms, cleaved between their lips and tied under their hair. The two teen capes were light enough to carry them both while I fired an emergency signal rocket Moebius issued as back-up. A hoverbike on autopilot glided down a few minutes later. Like I said, the Doc is a class act. I really hoped the news crews get a shot of me flying off with Flare and Tempest strapped across the pillion seat. Ten pounds of awesome in a five pound bag!

I glanced back at my two prisoners as I sped over Long Island Sound to Moebius' fortified zeppelin.

Like I said, I'm in this for the hot bitches. Playtime, sluts.

My body ached like you wouldn't believe from the battle royale. I didn't care. Snuggling into the shuttle's passenger seat, I adjusted the massage control to "Spiked Heels in an Asian Brothel." The champagne in the glass by my side was an excellent anaesthetic. Coming back to the zeppelin, I had expected to turn over the girls to a robotic drone and be sent off with my payment. Instead I had been invited to the post-caper wrap party. Talk about a serious honour! Usually only A-List cloaks and the successful lieutenants are there. Lucky thing I had packed my "casual wear" uniform. It's nice--black doublet with the Illithid logo capped by a matching roquelaure, grey slacks, and a lighter version of my helmet. I had barely repressed squeeing like a fanboy mingling with the gentry. As a topper, Moebius himself had visited for a pep talk. Not in person, the Doc would never be crazy enough to physically visit a room full of ambitious supervillains. His holo-projection had been good enough to ignore the insubstantiality. He had congratulated us on a job well done. The whale thing hadn't worked. But under cover of chaos we had achieved a 75% completion rate of secondary objectives. A record. He had even talked to me for a few moments. That was, like, whoa. A guy I had read about in Metahuman History class in school, a guy who had personally put more capes down than any other cloak in history, gave me three minutes of his time.

I touched the blood-red moebius strip on the collar of my uniform. I was pinned. Not a lieutenant in the Doc's criminal empire. That'd be too much to expect. However, the pin signified Moebius had noticed me. And not in a "take him outside and feed him to the robo-pirahnas" way. His lieutenants would call instead of me responding to one of the recruiting notices on CloakNet. I was now of the "regulars". A noise from the rear of the stealth shuttle Moebius had provided as a lift home caught my ear. Sauntering to the back, I opened the door to the baggage compartment. Among my bags and gear were the fruits of my labours: two naked girl-capes bound and gagged for the ride back to my lair. Only their domino masks and sashes remained. Flare and Tempest writhed in their bonds. Both were cuffed with snug, tough plastic manacles at wrist and ankle. Nothing save a chemical "key" would melt the bonds. Their own sashes had been used to hogtie them with wrists touching their ankles. Shiny grey patches over their lips sealed in foam balls that expanded to fill every corner of their mouths. Steam leaked from the metal collar around Flare's neck. Insulated on the outside, she suffered the incredibly cold metal on the inside. The liquid nitrogen in the cryo-collar forced her to spend all her heat-power fighting off hypothermia instead of burning her way free. Tempest's fingers wriggled under the black rubber arm sheath that welded her arms together from fingertip to shoulder. The skintight material showed her muscles bunching like--appropriately--live wires. The good Doctor had spent decades defeating and imprisoning metahumans. Figured he would have restraints on hand to suppress their powers.

Tempest moaned when my bare hand caressed her hip. I got a tiny shock akin to touching a doorknob after shuffling over carpet. She tried to head-butt me away when my palm squeezed her tight ass. Naughty. Her enraged expression shifted to fear as I touched her brow. She whined a "no!", shaking her head in a vain attempt to avoid the pulse of trance-energy. Just a light zap, enough to render her slow and muzzy. It wasn't strong enough for her to escape the indignity while I fondled my property. That had been another of Moebius' generosities. Strictly speaking any prisoners captured while henching are "work product". The cape struggling in my grasp was all mine, though. Tempest ground her right cheek in the floor, eyes closed, while I explored her sleek form. Her skin was smooth because of the depilation treatment given during her time in the zeppelin holding cells. It had rendered her permanently bare save for her head and about her eyes. I was rewarded by a sniffle when my hands cupped her pert breasts. She uttered an anguished sob when I tweaked the nubs crowning them. Oh yes. She would be a great plaything once we were home. I turned to my other prize. Flare didn't need a trance-pulse. Her fair skin was very pale. The cryo-collar must be sickening her. I kneaded her toned form. Though as athletic as her compatriot, her body was fuller. Puppy-fat not burned off yet provided lusher curves compared to Tempest's angular beauty. Flare whimpered through her gag when I squeezed her teats. Very very nice, ripe C's with not a hint of sag or loss of firmness. Her flesh was cool when I traced the lines of her apple-cheeks. Freckles dotted her cheekbones. Mmmm--pigtails and a private school uniform were in order.

"Mmmphhwsssss" she cried out.

"Want to talk?" I cackled. I work on my cackle, you have to be convincing or sound like a nerd.

"Mmmmphhhhss!"

"Oh, alright!" I sprayed her gag-strip from an aerosol can provided by Moebius' goons. "There, you can cough out the packing on your own."

"Gah-hah!" She tongued out the foam with great difficulty. Repressed tears glistened in limpid green eyes. "P-please, mister, let us go."

"Oh, c'mon, not even a 'you'll never get away with this'?" I sighed dramatically. "Kid these days, no idea of tradition."

"Oh gawd, I'm so cold, it hurts," she wailed. "It hurts and Michi--Tempest is crying, she never cries, I'm scared, and I don't want to die, please, let us go."

"Wow, that was stirring." I laid my hand over my heart. "Your plea has touched me to the core. No, wait, that was the champagne. Love those bubbles."

"You're--" Flare scowled. "You're a real asshole, you know that?"

"Guilty!" I crowed. "Of course, an asshole you're going to be knowing ahahaha very close for a long time."

"Oh gawd." She screwed her eyes shut. "No, not that. Drop us off, naked if you have to, we'll tell the reporters you totally owned us. I'm a v--v--"

"Fresh as the driven snow in the first hour of a blizzard." I admit, I was really enjoying a thorough gloat. It's not often I can indulge. "Sorry, occupational hazard of being a superheroine. Pity your career was so short. What were you doing out there, anyway?"

"We--we saw on TV about the attack," Flare said, trying to hide her nudity from me. "Michi--Tempest and I ditched our te--uh, decided to help out. We'd fought some criminals before, like that armed car robbery in--uh..."

"Jeebus Christ on a pogo stick." My jaw dropped beneath the visor. "You decided to leap into a fight without teaming up with any of the others, co-ordinating efforts, and only after having taken down a mundane bank robbery?"

"Yeah, we represent." Flare stuck her chin out. "Danger Grrls don't run. What do you think now, Mr. Gaypants?"

"That is the most witless thing I've ever heard of," I replied. "Where did you learn heroing, off the back of a cereal box? And, hey, not playing that team, and even if I was it's rude to disrespect alternative lifestyles."

Flare stared at me for a minute. Then she burst into tears. Hell, I had to get stuck with an emotionally-immature heroine. Irritated, I jammed the foam into her mouth. The redhead screamed around the packing while I sprayed her lips with another aerosol. The silver-gray seal appeared again. I left her sobbing on the floor. Time for a little research. Moebius' shuttles were pimped out with all sorts of accessories. Stealth shields, whisper-mode thrusters, and a kicking comm-suite. I booted up Moebzilla--best browser ever, by the way--to do some checking. Flare had already given me some leads. Thank you, juvenille babbling. I googled "Danger Grrls". Within seconds I came across a fan website. The Grrls were a group of teenage superheroines from flyover country. Nebraska, Iowa, downstate Illinois--all heartland metahumans who had formed up outside the established cape scenes in the major urban centers. They all shared the same basic uniform and elemental/force blast powers. There were ten others in the "team", including a smoking hot blonde named Sunbeam and a phat black girl called Shadowcaster. Flare and Tempest appeared to have been based in Wisconsin. Hardly a hotbed of cloak activity. Most of their activities had been Samaritan efforts--using their flight abilities and resistance to the elements they channeled to rescue people from fires and car wrecks. Their sole crime foiling outside of zapping the odd yokel mugger had been defeating a white-supremacist gang that had decided to fund-raise for the race war with an armored car heist. Some more websearching on "Michiko" and Wisconsin school websites brought up information on Michiko Asahara and Katherine Palfrey. Both were listed as on a class trip to the Big Apple. The two even had a Flickr gallery of vacation photos--two lovely sixteen-year-old juniors clowning around in front of various landmarks.

Two innocents who had no idea of the horror they would suffer in a few days. Their lives stolen, never to see family and friends again.

I suppose I should have slumped back in my seat at the enormity of what they were about to undergo. Again: I'm evil. I chortled at their foolish impetuousness. It's a hard world, girls. You came close to putting me into the Fridge. Twisting in the chair, I flicked an "L" with my fingers at the closed bagged compartment hatch. I returned to my champagne and wicked-great massage. Outside, the rolling hills of Quebec's Eastern Townships passed by as the shuttle's autopilot flew a nap-of-the-earth approach. I had plotted a course through Maine and the eastern part of the province to avoid the Continental Homeland Defense systems clustered along the St. Lawrence River. The anti-alien defense system set up after the '62 Reptiloid Incident was patchier away from crucial infrastructure like the Seaway. The course left me exposed only for a few minutes before the stealthed shuttle banked over Montreal. I smiled fondly at my home city. The lighted cross on the mountain never failed to lift my spirits. The airplane warning-beacon on Place Ville Marie had been canted up to paint a fleur-de-lis on the clouds above. Seems like there was a mission for Montreal's resident cape. No problemo, I kept my nose clean when I was in town. Fleur-de-Lis and her sometime partner the Voltigeur never had reason to track me down. I have a strict don't-caper-where-you-eat policy. Well, aside from the odd stripper or escort trancebolted into becoming a fuckbunny during long weekends. But, hey, I always throw them back with blanked memories.

The shuttle hovered over a deserted warehouse section in the north-central section of the city. The cargo-droids carried out my baggage--both suitcases and human. Flare and Tempest struggled madly before I tossed them into the back of the mini-van along with my gear. Their screams died out when I slammed shut the rear doors. The van's soundproofing was very good. In the shadows of a warehouse I doffed my helmet and doublet in favour of a sweater and parka. Some cloaks mix work and mundane lives. Not me. Like most capes, a secret identity enables downtime. You can't be "on" all the time. When I got into the driver's seat, my captive's panicked cries filled the vehicle's interior. I leered at them without bothering to conceal my features. Unless I was caught in a traffic stop--unlikely, I keep my mundane vehicles ultra-clean to avoid scrutiny--there was no way anyone would be able to save them from their coming fate. Even if I was stopped, short of a SWAT Team ambush I could handle any donut eater with a trancebolt. "No, officer, these aren't the tied up girls you're looking for." Nope, they were headed for my lair.

Where they soon wouldn't be able to object at all to becoming my tranced sex slaves.

I so love my job.

The Underground City is mentioned in every Montreal tourist guide. It is less impressive than it sounds. Nothing like the Fuller Dome that Disney erected over Anaheim. It is a series of malls, pedestrian passageways, and several "metro" subway stations beneath the surface of downtown Montreal. Convenient for shopping in a city where winter is a serious business; I just prefer scoping out the hot Quebecois babes on Sainte Catherine in summer to walking around a bunch of food courts. My lair is beneath one of the major department stores in the Underground City complex. Amazing what a little trancebolting can do if applied to an architect in charge of a remodeling project. It's not impressive compared to Doctor Moebius' airship or Captain Chaos' Harlequin Castle. Five room living suite, a gym, my brainwashing lab--just the essentials, nothing fancy. Still, my crib provides a comfortable base for evil plottage and resting up after the latest caper. The easy shopping and access to the numerous strip clubs along Ste Catherine are bonuses to the location.

I kicked back with a Schwartz' smoked meat sandwich. It is a type of pastrami that is a Montreal specialty. Medium-fat of course, not that pussy "lean" cut. If you're going to eat crap, might as well do it right. I'd work it off in the gym tomorrow. I sipped the mandatory black cherry cola to cut the grease while watching my slaves struggle in the brainwashing lab. Closed-circuit cameras and plasma TV's are a great combination. The lab itself was in shadow. My captives were strapped into two restraint chairs, blinking against the high-intensity spotlights focused on them. The chairs were polished steel with no padding. Flare and Tempest squirmed against heavy steel bands padded with rubber at ankle, just above their knees, upper thigh, waist, wrist, elbow...well, you get the idea. When restraining a cape, "overkill" is not a bad word. I had kept the cryo-collar on the redhead, and my sparky slut's armbinder had seperated into rubber sheathes. A thick strap around each forehead forced them to stare at the lab's entrance.

I checked myself in the mirror. I was in casual mode now. Not boxers and sweats, of course. Even in private a cloak has to carry himself with style. I was rocking the Hugh Hefner look. Black velveteen smoking jacket with the Illithid symbol on the left lapel, grey silk pajama pants which are boy howdy fun when you're commando, slippers. Laugh it up, folks. I don't see you mouthbreathers with a mansion and a hundred hot Playmates. Heff's da man. Helmet too, sure they'd seen my mundane face. But the visored helmet was an essential part of the image. Alright. Game on. Game. On! I mentally cued up Queen's "We Will Rock You!" in the music queue. Stashing away the take-out trash, I headed for the lab with a psi-force battery under my arm. If you've never seen one, they are stacks of shiny cubic zirconium crystals packed into a clear plastic housing. They can hold a huge amount of psi-energy for their size and are great conversation pieces. My lair is laced with crystal psi-collectors that feed into a central battery bank. All psionics project some energy even when not using their powers. The collectors siphoned off my natural psi "leakage" to store the mesmerizing energy for applications where my own internal resources would be quickly exhausted.

I flicked away some dust. Had to do a little cleaning. I know, I could have a staff of pretty maidsluts tranced into submission. I'm not home much, though, and maintaining a slavegirl household always seemed too much of a hassle. Of course, said reservations were now under reconsideration. The lab door opened with an ominous hiss. Flare screamed through the silvery gag as I entered. Tempest managed a defiant glare that was, under the circumstances, more endearing than intimidating. A wave of my hand turned up the lights. Their eyes widened as they took in the banks of electronics equipment, computer monitors, and mysterious apparatii on the walls. A tapped command on a keyboard set the turntable beneath the restraint chairs to revolving. I wanted them to see everything. The showing of the instruments, as the medieval torturers put it. My two captured capes writhed against the unyielding steel cuffs upon seeing the clear Lucite cylinders stretching from floor to ceiling at the rear of the lab.

Their terror was important. See, all the blinkenlights and equipment? Fake-o-la. It's all consumer electronics behind facades and used medical equipment kitbashed into futuristic torture devices. My powers of mind control are limited compared to a telepath like Mistress Mesmer. I can't rewrite minds from the subconscious up like she can. Nor do I have any hyperscience. Wouldn't trust anything I'd buy from a mad scientist anyway--that stuff is unreliable outside of their immediate control. Not to mention what backdoors they might put into any conditioning produced by a brainwashing machine. I have one power: inducing a powerful trance that reduces the subject to a suggestibility far beyond what any mundane hypnotist could induce. Said trance is deep enough that the usual restrictions about "not being able to violate moral or deep emotional objections" is so much bushwah. The trick is that there has to be a constant prescence of trance energy to maintain such conditioning, and my inductions have to be convincing enough that the mind under attack tricks itself into believing in the deep submission. Mundane hypnosis is, after all, as much a form of intensive roleplaying as an actual trance state. That's why imaginitive people get more into hypnotic "character" than dull personalities. Anything that reinforces thoughts of brainwashing is a major boost to my power.

"Ladies," I said, unsealing their gags. "Welcome to my little lab. I hope you're comfortable. Oh, wait, not."

"F--fuck you," stutter-snarled Tempest. Her hair crackled with static. "When I get loose I'm going to deep-fry your balls."

"Operative word, get loose," I comment. Another command causes the "TranceBlaster" to come down from the ceiling on a robotic arm. Really a stripped dental X-ray machine with resin flanges and spikes coated in silver paint. The only working part is the zirconium focus crystal at the "muzzle". "You're a little, how shall I put this, indisposed."

"We'll get out," Tempest growled. Her tight body squirmed against the restraints. "We will, you'll screw up. Can't keep up your guard forever--"

"We're toast, Michiko." Flare's voice was soft and despairing.

"Not our names, Flare!"

"It's alright," I said, "Miss Asahara. And you too, Katherine. Although I think you might be a Kathy from now on. Or Cat. Or, heh, 'sweet-tits'. Your identity at this point is academic."

"He's the Illithid," Flare whispered. "I saw his profile on America's Most Wanted Metahumans. He's a mind-controller."

"It's the...Illithid," I rasped. The pregnant pause and the rasp are seriously important. All in the delivery. "And that profile was great, huh? One of my best capers, abducting the entire contestant pool of the Cheerleading Championships. It was on contract, the Screaming Skull got the auction fees, but nice chunk of change in the old bank account."

"Slaves." Tempest shivered. "No! Nooooooooooo!"

"Love the pleadage, makes my night." I leaned close, her terror-distorted features reflected in the visor. "See, I take it personally when some cheesehead brats try to kill me."

"I--I wasn't trying to kill you," Tempest protested.

"Really? If I hadn't had on insulated armour, you would have had in arrythmia." I poked her in her tummy. "Those bolts weren't set on 'stun'."

"Damn, I'm really sorry!" Tempest's brown eyes watered. "I never meant to hurt anyone, I just upped the voltage to get through your suit."

"With great power," I intoned, "comes knowing how the fuck to use the things. And you, red, way to go barbecuing lower Manhattan. You did more damage than my strike team."

"Great." Flare sobbed. "Just...great. First big bust and we totally screw up. M'kay, fine. We suck, you rule, whatev. B-b-but please, I wanna see my mom again. She'll miss me so much."

"Sure," I chirp. "I have her address. Nice MILF, she'll make a hot addition to the harem. Then there's your sister Betty--bright future ahead of her in college, but I bet she'll be way better earning money as a tranced stripslut in one of the clubs above."

Flare's scream was a major ego boost. Not that I'd do it. Too much exposure.

"Mister," Tempest quavered, her defiance now gone, "is this gonna hurt? Because I can take it, do it to me. Flare can't, she's really really not up to it."

"Oh hey, calm down." I patted her head. Small shocks prickled my fingers. "There'll be a little disorientation. The sensation of your mind becoming a puddle of mush. Oh, and then there's the clit piercing."

Wow. Those capes could really dance in their bonds with the proper motivation. Washing my hands in the sink, I donned latex gloves before pulling out the instruments from the drawer. Their chests heaved as I raised each shiny and very pointy thing. Eenie-meenie, minie.... Tempest tried to meld with the steel chairback when I squatted before her. Her tummy fluttered while my thumb teased back the hood shielding her clit. I gave the nub a gentle stroke. Tempest's eyes rolled back in her head at the stimulation. Very sensitive, wasn't she? She uttered terrified whimpers when I slipped the guide tube beneath the hood. The Asian slave-girl-to-be shrieked when I did it. Honestly, it was just anticipation rather than actual pain. Vertical clit hood piercings are about as painful as getting an earring. Like I said, mind-set is everything. Her thighs fought against the steel cuffs restraining them as I fitted her with a stainless steel barbell. At the end was a faceted clear crystal sphere. A zirconium psi-battery, to be precise, already charged. The crystals contained a week's worth of mesmer-energy before I needed to recharge each with a single bolt. Tempest moaned when the crystal touched her bare clit. The battery intentionally leaked a trickle of my stored trance-energy. A fraction of what a trance-bolt contained. But nestled against a major nerve bundle like a woman's clitoris, the leakage went straight through her nervous system and into her brain. Let free, the hood shielding the bud trapped the battery against her clit. It would touch her constantly--always rubbing, always sending my mesmerizing power into her. It was a pretty sight. A symmetric arrangement with the steel bead peeping above her hood and the diamond-like psi-crystal sparkling in the folds at the apex of her sex.

I chose an emerald-coloured crystal for my Flare. Always colour-co-ordinate. The redhead shuddered when I performed my little operation. Green eyes silently plead for mercy. Nuh-uh. Her tensed body softened under the influence of the crystal on her clit. I sprayed both piercings with human healing factor to speed up their natural recovery. Their eyes glazed over while their hips undulated to the insidious touch of their now-permanent jewelery. Soon it would be an instinctive motion. Shimmy shimmy shake. The TranceBlaster "powered up" with an ominous whrrrrrrrm of fake circuitry. Screwing in the large psi-battery, I aimed at Flare's forehead. She sobbed softly as the focus crystal glowed black in her mind's eye. A mild bolt into the battery blasted a concentrated stream of trance-energy deep into her brain. Flare shrieked as the power overwhelmed all thought and will. Her entire body collapsed in the restraint chair. Tempest's rubber-clad hands clenched into fists as she watched her dear friend slumped into a deep trance. Her mouth worked--perhaps to cry for mercy or to curse me. Really, who cared? I emptied the rest of the half-full psi battery into her head.

I undid the cryo-collar. No need to fear Flare's wild temper now. With that much of my trance-energy in her mind, her natural psychic defenses could not purge it as easily as a regular bolting. The trickle from her clit-crystal topped up the swirl of dark power numbing her psyche. Rather like an intravenous drip maintaining the effect of a knock-out shot. I tore the mask from her face. It had only been attached with spirit gum. I looked down upon Flare's true self, a vulnerable young woman named Katherine. I mean, I knew it was her. It was the symbol of the thing. Unmasking a cape or a cloak is the ultimate humiliation. You can't hide anymore. Tempest still had a bit of fight in her. She moved her head just a little. Not enough to escape removing her last modesty, revealing her almond eyes. Undoing the restraint bands, I melted the rubber arm-sheathes with the releaser agent. I wanted both my new playthings naked for the next step.

I placed them back to back. Rubber belts tightened around their ankles and their waists. I forced each girl's wrists to the belly of the girl behind her; more rubber cuffs forcing them to embrace each other from behind. The sensual stimulation of their new piercings made them writhe against each other. A rubber belt around their heads finished binding them into a tight girl-package. Over their faces went rubber respirators with clear visors. The three-point straps met behind each girl's head. Their soft breaths huffed through the ribbed tubes dangling from the front of each mask. Picking them up, I carried them to one of the cylinders. I could have put them in seperate ones. It seemed more fun to have them hug each other close during their last moments of freedom. The transparent plastic slid up into the ceiling. Balancing them, I tucked waterproof wireless earbuds into their ears. Hoses swaying from the top of the cylinder screwed into their gas masks. Air hissed through the hoses into the regulators forced into their mouths.

The cylinder descended. It thunked and hissed upon reaching the rubber seal at the bottom. The dazzled duo leaned against the side of their prison for support. Not for long. I activated the pumps. Amber fluid gushed into the cylinder. It lapped around their ankles, then their thights, then their breasts. It soon filled the entire cylinder. They floated in it like fish in an acquarium. If they were paying attention, they might see the complex chemical name stenciled on the tanks. Actually, it was just massage oil heated to blood temperature. It would be their own terrified subconscious that would suggest it was a hypnotic concoction. The temperature would remove all sensation from their surroundings, heightening the effect of the trance. Their only sensations now would be the friction of crystal on clit, the confining bonds, and their own erotic embrace. Projectors outside the hypno-cylinder flashed a complex pattern on the Lucite, turning the entire surface into one large display. No matter how much they thrashed they would always see the fractal patterns surrounding them. Some controllers use old-fashioned spirals. I prefer the Mandelbrot set. A cloyingly sweet "gas" laced the air pumped into their masks. Just a strawberry aromatherapy oil akin to what chloroform was supposed to smell like, mixed with essence of hemp. AKA pot, a scent instantly suggesting intoxication to the modern American teenager.

Synthesized voices--their own--whispered commands over a repetitive techno track. I had assembled the script during the shuttle ride home. I had prepared inductions in my lab's database. Bimboification, age regression, robotic personalities. None of them were what I wanted. These girls were going to feel their minds descend into the depths of mind control. "Obey" their artificial voices breathed into their ears. "Sleep" "Obey" "Sleep" "You must obey the Illithid" "Illithid is Master" "Obedience is sleep, sleep is pleasure, pleasure is obedience." Flare's body writhed against Tempest's. I couldn't think of them as Kathy and Michiko yet. Way more arousing to think of them as powerful capes being enslaved. "Every time you resist you feel a thousand more times the desire to submit." "Every time you submit you become a thousand thousand times more sleepy and obedient and good." "Escape is resistance, fighting is resistance, disobedience is resistance, all things are resistance save perfect service and worship of Master." I undid my pajama bottoms. A nearby tissue box provided what I needed while the mesmerized heroines bobbed in the amber oil. I imagined their experience--isolated from almost all sensation, thinking they were under drugged assault, the fractal pattern clearly a powerful hypnotic induction field, minds open and bare to all suggestion by my trance energy. Young minds once dedicated to truth, justice, and kicking cloak butt reeling under the insidiously-pleasurable mindrape.

Uhhhhhhh.

Whoa. Now I feel like another sandwich.

"Shopping for a girlfriend?" the salesgirl asked with that slightly breathless accent Quebcois have when speaking English. Pretty, twenties, with blonde-streaked brown hair down to her shoulders.

"Sure. What do you think?" I held up the red halter-style bikini top.

"Very good for clubbing," she replied.

"And this?" I said, holding up a scarlet string bikini bottom.

"A little more for the beach." She winked. "Or the bedroom."

"Kewl, I'm a guy, we're not up on the fashion thing. Need the female POV." I pick out another set in dark blue. "So, employee discount, Monique? Pretty little fuckpuppet."

"Who are you--" Monique shuddered as the trigger phrase hit her. I reinforced it with a trancebolt through the fly of her jeans, into the clit-crystal hidden from view. "Mmmmm....Maitre...so good to serve you. Does Maitre desire his fuckpuppet today?"

"No, I'm set." I stroked her cheek. "Now, you'll be a good slavegirl and put these on your employee discount as usual. Hey, studies going alright?"

"Working on my thesis every night." Monique's eyes fluttered. "I kneel with the recharge crystal and concentrate and become a smart girl who worships her Maitre."

"Good little fuckpuppet, wake up now and forget. Oh, and before that, you may silently cum ten times as you imagine me using your ass."

"Naaaaaahhhhhhhh--"

I left my slave behind in the Bikini Village in silent orgasm. What, I actually pay for anything? That's what my collection of shopgirls were for. Employee discounts save a heck of a lot of money, not to mention the fact that most of their salaries go into one of my secret bank accounts. Living expenses were kept low by having them sleep--and not much else, besides study if they were university students--at the house in Notre-Dame-de-Grace I secretly own. The money they earned as shopgirls and doing a weekly two-night rotation as strippers took care of the overhead. All I had to do is send a girl over with a few psi-batteries every week so they could keep their control-crystals charged. Sweet operation--low-maintenance compared to a live-in harem. I could reduce expenses even more by having them drop out of school. I don't usually do that. Not out of the goodness of my heart, of course. It's that dislike of waste. Every so often I have to let one slavegirl leave--only so much psi-energy to go around--and it seems a shame to leave them to a life of McDonald's or stripping. No telling if one of the fuckpuppets might invent a cure for cancer or something. If they do, easy-peasy to find them again and reinforce their old conditioning with a trancebolt. You have to take the long view in this game. Capering only brings in so much.

I ducked into one of the supposedly employee-only corridors. A secret door in a wall panel gave access to the maze leading to my lair. It's not a really complex maze, only a few less-than-lethal traps to slow down an escapee or invader. I avoid killer devices. How many times have you read about some cloak falling victim to a deathtrap rewired by a cape? I put the bags of groceries and clothing on the kitchen counter. The lair had to provide for three now. I stashed away the goodies--vegetables and fruits, lean cuts of meat, a huge can of nutritious gruel mix that would be Katherine and Michiko's only food outside of the occasional treat. Not a health nut, love me the junk food, but being a cloak means staying in shape. Too many supervillains let themselves get fat and lazy. Look what happened to Serpentus. In his prime he could have kicked the Regulators' asses. You could see when he got more powerful he skipped the workout sessions and piled on the heavy meals. Boom! Regulators swoop in to bust him and his reaction time is a hair off. Maybe pumping weights in the federal Metahuman Supermax in Alabama will remind him the importance of buffness.

Katherine and Michiko floated in the hypno-tank. Their trance-weakened bodies moved only fitfully in response to the fractal patterns and subliminals. After eighteen hours, any mind will succumb to the intense assault. Oh sweet! Busy fingers explored bare pink folds and tickled clits. The lesbian patterning I instilled into all my slaves--the only sex they desire is with their slave-sisters, besides me--had sunk into their mazed brains. No penetration with these two, I wanted that for myself. After changing into casual-Illithid wear and a white labcoat, I activated the pumps to drain the oil from the tank. The two bound girls shuddered when the cylinder rose into the ceiling. My labcoat spared my velvet smoking jacket any nasty stains. Michiko shook her head muzzliy after the straps were released. What a fighter, give her a hand, everyone! Seeing my helmeted form looming over her, she slip-slid her oil-slicked body back into a corner. I stalked her all the way. She raised a fist. Biting her lip, she tried to gather her power to attack. The only result was a little lightshow around her hand that faded away into oblivion.

"Still a bad girl," I crooned. "But fighting Master is resistance, you want to submit a thousand times. I bet you're feeling it now, that warmth in your pussy and clit and mind, the need to sleep and obey and be perfect for Master."

"Nuh, no, not my Maaaaaaa--" Michiko arched her back. "So tired, can't, must get out. Ba--bast--fuh-feel good about hurting a little girl?"

"Actually yes," I admitted. "It's petty, but it's me. I give you credit, Mich. Very few girls manage to stay focused after a tanking."

"Temp--Tempest," she whispered. "Tempest, gonna kuh-kick you ahhhh-ahhhh."

"Tempest is who you were." I flicked a trancebolt at her skull. "What you are now is up to me. Say, ever play D&D? Read about the illithids?"

"Not a guh-geek," she said. "Buh-bet you played all the time, couldn't get a duh-date."

"Actually, my gaming club had the most popular girl in school as our slut." I sighed. Good times, good times. I still kept in touch with the others. Most had become cloaks, although a few became really evil There was even one--yech!--used car salesman. "Off on a tangent. The monster I liked the best was the illithid. Commonly called the mindflayer. Picture a humanoid with an octopoid head. They'd sneak up behind an adventurer and psi-blast them. You know all about that, don't you...pretty little fuckpuppet."

"Naaaaaaaahhhhh," Michiko hissed when the trigger phrase hit her consciousness. "Pretty little fuh--fuh--no, can't, can't be, wanna go home, mom, dad--"

"Their tentacles would wrap around the paralyzed victim." I mimicked the sensation by clamping on her skull with one hand, fingers slipping through her oily hair. "Just like you can feel my words, Master's words, dark tentacles of thought coiling around your brain. Tighter. Tighter. Holding you still, pretty little fuckpuppet."

"Feel them." Michiko gritted her teeth. "Pressure, so much."

"Then they'd eat the victim's brains, memories and all." I slurped loudly. "Feel the tentacles burrowing in your brain, deep, penetrating, they're going to tear it apart and eat each chunk, yum yum until nothing's left inside you, nothing at all."

"Stoooooooooop." Michiko sobbed. "No, feel them, ah, poking into my mind, ah, no, mercy mercy Master mercy!"

"Only obedience can save you."

"Obedience." Michiko shivered. "Sleep. Obey. Worship."

"The tentacles have decided to let you live, Michiko." I wriggled my fingers. "But they will always be around your brain, squeezing every so slightly, reminding you that you are Master's pretty little fuckpuppet. What are you, slave?"

"Pretty little fuckpuppet."

"Again."

"Pretty little fuckpuppet."

"Feel yourself submit, slave, a thousand times pleasure and obedience and peace for being a pretty little fuckpuppet."

Michiko repeated the phrase over and over. Her eyes rolled up at the pleasure afforded by each submission to the conditioning. So delectable, an exquisite bit of sushi ready to be savoured. Very tempting to lube my cock in her hair and use her up against the very cylinder that had turned her into a slave. Not yet. Another thing you learn in the cloaking game: impulse control. Have fun but also a plan and goals. Michiko's heat was going to be turned up to 11 before she got any relief. I ordered her to shower and dress in her specified slave outfit. The girl rose with a grace that was at odds with her sleepy countenance. Eyes half-lidded, she glided out of the room towards the slavegirl quarters. Her hobbies listed on her school webpage had been dancing and gymnastics along with muay thai fighting. The fluidity of her movements betrayed her training. As she passed, Kathy reached out with trembling fingertips to her friend. They barely brushed the other girl's ankle before, ignoring her fellow captive, Michiko disappeared from sight.

Kathy curled up in a ball. Her tears left tracks in the "mesmerizing" massage oil coating her face. Rolling to her belly, she crawled towards the sole escape route. Her muscles bunched beneath her skin. Kathy was--had been, really--a member of her school's womens' tennis team. Even earned a scholarship to Vassar based on that and her high grades. Very much power and speed. Odd that she had trained up into a brown-belt judoka. Perhaps each cape had felt the need to try a combat style that contrasted with their native strengths? Whatever, it had given her a more toned body compared to the spareness of her friend. I squatted down to stroke her naked form. A heat haze flared into existence just before my fingers touched skin. Not even close enough to burn. Rather nice, really, would be very pleasant to feel when she was ordered to perform a handjob. Oil steamed off her fair skin while she clawed at the steel floor in a frenzied effort to get away.

"Bad girl," I intoned.

"She didn't see me." Kathy bawled. "We've been together since second grade and she didn't even see me. What did you do to her?"

"Oh, she remembers you." I sneered. "You just don't matter any more. Nothing matters except being a pretty little fuckpuppet."

"Ungh."

"Hey, wanna see something fun?" I strode to a computer station. I called up a selection of footage from the Rumble and edited it into a continuous loop.

"The fuh-fight." Kathy struggled to focus on the images.

"Yep, specifically your little temper tantrum." I slowed down the playback. "Wow, see that? Cop got splashed by the blast from that truck you hit trying to roast me. Lucky for him those are probably only second-degree burns!"

"I huh-hurt a--" Kathy trembled. "No, no, not again!"

"Ooooo, you lose your temper a lot?" I chuckled, a guess paying off. Might not be a licensed psychologist, but I had picked up a lot of layman's knowledge all the same. "When was the first time?"

"Nuh-never meant tuh-tuh hurt Bobby," she said. "Uh-only little burn, didn't remember it, I juh-just get so scared or ahhh-ngry--"

"And then you lose control." I caressed her ass. "Could have hurt me. Hurt Michiko. So angry you nearly killed your bestest friend in the whole wide world."

"Wuh-wuh-wuh," Kathy gasped, trying to deny it.

"Bad girl." My hand smacked hard on her ass. "Bad girl."

"AAHHHHHHH!" Kathy arched. See, I had remembered about Michiko's outburst about low pain threshold...

"Bad girl, you want to explode, don't you?" smack smack smack "You will and maybe get me. But it's confined in here, maybe the flame blast goes down the hall. Michiko is there, showering, think the trance will numb her to the fireball? Or will she wake up just enough to realize her friend's anger will make her burn, burn--"

"Nah--nah-" Kathy took in a deep breath. "NO I WON'T GOD I'M SORRY SORRY NEVER NEVER AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!"

"Hey, hey, it's fine!" I snatched my hand away from her. Tiny flames swirled through her hair. Oh man, really have to enforce the conditioning! "There's a way you'll never hurt anyone again with your powers."

"How?" Kathy shuddered. "How, how, I get so mad sometimes--"

"Control," I said. My finger hesitantly slipped underneath her to tease her clit. I rubbed the crystal gently against the nub. "See, all calming you down, Master's words making the fire go down. Master controls you, you control your power."

"Cuuh-control." The flames subsided. "Cunt-trol. Cunt. Mmm. Trol. Good. More. Please."

"That's right." I circled her clit, fingers teasing her folds. "Fire deep inside, banked, Master's words keeping it in control, Master controls his pretty little fuckpuppet."

"Yeeeesssss."

"What are you, Katherine?"

"Pretty little fuckpuppet."

"Will Master's pretty little fuckpuppet use her powers without permission?"

"No, no, won't lose control."

"Master makes sure, because pretty little fuckpuppet is always sleepy and obedient and worshipful."

"Maaaaaaahster...."

Kathy actually skipped down the hall to shower with her sister slave. I watched her bouncing breasts appreciatively. The slave quarters were down a spiral stairway surrounded by walls covered in screens displaying the fractal pattern. No slave could come and go without a hefty dose of hypnotic reinforcement. The tight curves of the stairwell induced dizzyness--another way a small detail could reinforce the trance-energy's effect. The quarters themselves were a single bare concrete room with coffin-like fiberglass pods embedded in the walls. There were forty of them. Hey, when I'd built the lair I'd been inexperienced and horny. You survive, you learn. I checked on them through a video feed piped into the TV in the living room. The showerheads were in the center of the room, over gratings set over a tiled trench carrying the runoff into a drain. Soap and shampoo dispenser hoses hung down from between them. Kathy and Michiko dreamily lathered their nubile, bare bodies with the strawberry-and-hemp scented body wash. Just like the "sleeping gas". The scent sent them deeper into obedient slumber. Every so often a soft hand would help wash a back or thigh or body part. For several minutes the girls stood against each other, busy between each others thighs, ensuring their mounds were really really clean.

Soon I heard bare feet patter along the metal floor of the hallway. Toes brushed carpet as the two girls sleep-walked, eyelids barely parted, to the clothing set out on the glass table before me. The capes shimmied into their new uniforms. Flat pleather sandals with laces spiraling up to their knees shod their feet. Spike heels are sexy...but not when a potentially rebellious slave can drive it through your foot. Delicate fingers adjusted the dental-floss thin elastic that arched around their hips to the tiny spandex panel that covered only the sex. The rest of their mons were exposed. Clasps on each side could snap open to let the microkini fall free. A twirl of my finger sent them turning about to model the back. The microkinni bottom had just enough of a panel behind to cover the cleft between their asscheeks. Thongs are a little too much exposure for me. I nodded. The slaves donned the more substantial clubkini halter tops. Metal clinked when they fitted belly chains around their waist. Gold for Kathy, silver for Michiko. Around their necks went pleather chokers--red to match Kathy's outfit, dark blue for her Japanese friend--that had metallic flakes embedded in the fabric. Very vulgar. Dressed, they knelt before a mirror.

"Minds back in, pretty little fuckpuppets."

They roused, though still claimed by the trance-sleep. Both whined at seeing themselves in the revealing version of their old uniforms. Blushes coloured their skin all over as recollections of what they had done under deep obedience flashed through their minds.

I tossed aprons, washing liquid, rubber gloves, and toothbrushes at them.

"Alright, slaves, get to work. You left oil all the way down the hall and into the slave quarters. Clean that up first, then use the supplies under the kitchen sink to make this place sparkle."

Hey. This place really did need a cleaning.

Cloaks and capes are media whores. Dig it, why else do we wear the costumes if not for the attention? Everyone in the game always has a televsion or radio or Internet player set to a news channel. The footage of the New York Rumble was a hot topic even after two weeks. People were still sending in new amateur video and photos. The network heads must have been creaming their jockeys at the wealth of material. There were a few new shots of me, including an awesome one of me jetting away from the park on the hoverbike. Otherwise it was a slow news day. The usual stupid crises that continued regardless of major metahuman battles. Israel had attacked a Hamas bio-factory that was producing suicide bomber clones. Some moth monster had tried to eat Kobe until the Japanese mecha units had carted it back to the nature preserve on Guam. Tyrell Jackson of the Sonics had failed a drug test for telekinetic growth hormone. Same old crap that's been going on for years.

A fruity scent mixed with the delicious aroma of a medium-rare steak diverted my attention away from the Pulse broadcast and the charms of Mitsumi Takahashi. Hottest anchorwoman around, even after all these years. Rowr. Proffering a plate, she knelt with spread thighs before me clad only in collar and bikini bottom. Pigtails fell on either side of her face. Her features set in the soft blankness of a permanent light trance. Though sleepy, her body maintained a rigid posture as I tucked the napkin into the jacket collar. I nodded at her to set out the utensils. She placed plate and knife and fork on the living room table. The second her hand closed around the steak knife, she turned it around so it pointed towards her. Licking my lips, I dug into the meal of steak and steamed vegetables and baked potato. Neither Michiko nor Kathy were skilled cooks. It was mostly fry this, boil that, broil the other. The compensating factor for inexperience in the kitchen was Kathy's flame-power. My redheaded trance-slave grilled a steak or chicken to perfection. The Angus beef melted in my mouth. Every so often as a reward I would reach down to stroke her through the thin spandex over her cleft. She stayed in position. The only signs of her arousal were widened thighs and hips cocked forward to accept my attentions.

"Ahhhhhhh." She tossed her head. "Sleep, obedience, pleasure, master master."

"That's right," I said. I teased the crystal trapped against her clit through the bikini. "Allow Master's control to bring you deeper and deeper into obedience."

"So sleepy. Mind so foggy." She rocked on her knees to a finger slipped under the spandex.

"Lean over, slave." I placed the half-finished meal on her back as she bent over. "Keep it warm, I don't want to waste such a good meal. Now, hands behind your back and use that sweet little mouth."

"Yuh-yes, Master." Wrists crossed behind her, she undid my silk pajama pants with her teeth. Full red lips pursed to kiss the tip of Lil Illithid.

And paused.

"Come on," I said, giving her ass a smack. "Bad girl. Get to work."

"Mwah!" Kathy blushed all over. "F-fire, fire--"

"Yes yes, you're a hot pretty little fuck--" I glanced back at the television. Local news now, a blaze in the industrial section off Decarie. "Oh, that. Barely a two-alarm."

"Would have--" Her eyes fluttered open. "Helped. I used to--help people, didn't I?"

"Yes you did." I tap her lips. "Now you have to help Master, pretty little fuckpuppet."

"Yes. Help." A tear fell into my lap. "Used to help. To fly. So nice, sneaking outside with Michiko. Flying away outside of Green Bay, away from all the lights, higher and lying on our backs and looking up into the stars."

"How sweet." I undid her pigtails. Her flame-red hair tumbled loose around her face. "Kiss and lick, pretty little fuckpuppet. How good it feels, just like when you were free and flying, now on your knees serving Master."

"Oh, so good." Softness mouthed all along my very erect cock. "Used to race, flying low and fast, like playing a set against the best opponent, skimming low over the Bay, mmmmmm"

"Nrrrrrg." I jerked when her lips peeled down my foreskin and her tongue kitten-licked all around the head. "Not...usual, oh right there you hot little fuckpuppet, right on the slit, for psi-kinetics to have a second power."

"Mmmmph, not psi," she said between gentle tonguings. "Brownies, on Jamboree, in museum--mmmmm, Master's cock so sweet, like strawberries--was there with other troops--"

"Shaft, my slut." My fingers twined in her hair. "Bob your head up and down and up and down--"

"Sleepy, obedient," she moaned as she licked her lips, taking her time. "Near an--amulet, thingie, girls from different troops, flash and power, so much power, later we found each other--"

Soon her mouth was occupied with more important matters than idle chatter. Her technique was lovely. Kathy alternated between swirling her tongue around the head before sinking down deep. Lips sucked while the tip slid deep into her. Her throat worked around the tip, like a wet cunt squeezing in the throes of orgasm. Days of constant practise on dildoes while staring into the swirling fractal patterns had destroyed whatever youthful shyness she had had. Wet thighs ground together. My cock deep in her mouth, not where she dreamed it of going while lying strapped down in her sleeping pod while her own voice chanted words of obedience and worship. Wrists crossed behind her, she twisted them in invisible ropes braided from her own lust and submission. Despite her vigourous pleasuring of my cock, her back never wavered. The plate warmed by her heat haze stayed perfectly upright. I grabbed her hair. My hips bucked up. Kathy whimpered in mixed excitement and fear when she sensed the energy surging through the thick shaft fucking her mouth. Conditioned to perform, she never slackened despite the anticipation nibbling at the edges of mental control. Grtting my teeth, I rammed deep into my slave. Sperm suffused with my dark psi-energy burst forth. Kathy whined as the energy--associated all too closely with the constant friction on her clit--blasted through mind and body. Her lovely form shook with a desperate plea for release.

She wouldn't get it. Not unless she crawled to my door and begged for the ultimate violation.

I collapsed back onto the couch. I had released way more than I had expected into her sweet mouth. It would take a while for that energy--along with the other type--to return. Still, there was a half-charged psi-battery on the coffee table beside me... No, better not. A psionic could become too used to relying on outside sources. Better to learn to manage your own internal energies. After all, I was all about the control. Near comatose from the psi-blast, Kathy rested with her head in my lap. Her lips still kissed and licked my limp cock. Lifting away the plate, I whispered dismissal into her ear. Instantly she rocked to her feet. I patted her ass as she retreated to the slave quarters. As the living room door swung open, I saw Michiko squatting with eyes glazed against the wall outside. A thumb madly circled her clit while her lips mutely whispered a certain three-word phrase. Naughty little trance-slut, leaving her work-out in the gym to spy on her sister getting fucked. The door closed on the two. Soon, I thought. It would all be worth it to see those capes abandon all their dignity for a chance to release the desire built up over two weeks of denial.

Good thing I didn't have to deny myself. Tucking myself back in, I finished my dinner. Damn, this was good. I had to sit Kathy down in front of the Food Channel one of these days. With a little more technique I'd have my own Cordon Bleu cook who could sizzle a steak more ways than one. Her interrupted origins story tugged at my attention as I went to my bedroom. Cloaks and capes tend to zero in on news items that are high on the weird-shit-o-meter. Cloaks in particular because odd news stories might mean something powerful to steal or capture. That amulet Kathy had mentioned sounded familiar. A little searching on the bedroom Internet connection brought back the incident. Oh right, the attack on the Field Museum exhibition of Sumerian ritual artefacts by the Cult of the Ten Thousand Screaming Devils. They had wanted an item called the Amulet of Yendor to raise an elder god from beneath Lake Michigan. Chinook and the Chicago Seven superhero team had driven the cultists through a hellgate portal after a botched attempt to mass-sacrifice the Brownies who were there on an educational trip. Good on those guys. All for the evil, but wasting Girl Scouts? Not. Cool.

The timeline fit with Kathy and Michiko's age and the appearance of the Danger Grrls. So, not psi-kinetics. That was logical. Psionic metahumans usually only have one power. Often a versatile one, like my little tricks to extend the limits of my trancebolt ability. It's the mystics and the hyperscientists who tend to have a broad spectrum of powers. Take Fleur-de-Lis. The enchanted Crusader's armour she wore gave her super-strength, flight powers, speed, and immunity from damage short of a direct hit by a daisycutter bomb. A hyperscientist like Moebius could whip up devices that could do anything, if subject to wonky side-effects. Arguments over what exactly enabled metahuman powers had been a hot subject of debate ever since humans tried for a better rationale than "It's God, moron". The mystics say hyperscience is magic channeled through technological focii. Hyperscientists think magic is another form of psionics, and explain psionics with a lot of gibberish involving "quantum" and "ether". Regular scientific-method types bang their heads on the blackboard. We psi-folks don't care much--to us, it's a physical talent like being able to play pro ball.

Scratching at my door. I grinned. Theory was fun. Practical applications, even better. I opened the door to see Kathy and Michiko in submission posture just outside. On their knees, ass up, head down, wrists crossed behind them. Mockingly, I bowed for them to entire my boudoir. They shuffled on hands and knees to the bed. Emotions played across their young features. Shame, desire, fear. The conditioning forced their minds to the fore when they finally couldn't stand to resist their urges. Every moral objection screamed in their mind to stop, while their bodies carried them forward to satisfy unbearable needs. The redhead and raven-haired Japanese girl quivered while submission-kneeling on the silk sheets. I parted Kathy's cuntlips from behind. She mewled in wanton lust, teary-eyed while the hypnotic commands of obedience and worship swirled in her brain. Very wet and ready. Michiko sobbed audibly when I ran a fingertip along her pink folds. She had gotten the least sexual attention of the two trance-sluts. I made her watch while her slave-sister debased herself with mouth and hand pleasuring me. A flick to her piercing sent her shivering with repressed pleasure.

"You know," I told them, fondling their tight pussies, "you're to become permanent trance-slaves once I take you. That sweet strawberry scented fog in your brain will roll in. You might remember your families and lives. But they'll be dim shapes in the mist. Nothing will be real but this."

"Luh-let--uhhhhhssss....guh-guh" Michiko jerked when my fingertip, wet with her juices, rimmed her anal ring. "Ahhhhhhhhhh!"

"Should I crack open your asses?" I considered. "No, you get your pussies filled by a nice thick cock."

"Oh god, yes, do it." Kathy looked over her shoulder at me. I was out of uniform. No matter, I had planted in both their minds the suggestion that whenever they saw my face they would only see the inhuman visor of the Illithid. "Can't take it, oh god, I'm going to die, everything gone, oh no, oh please."

"Not gone." Beneath my hand, Michiko grunted when the finger penetrated her ass ever so slightly. "You'll be happy little Kathy and Michiko, serving your Master while the fog makes everything sweet and hazy."

"No, muh--" Michiko gasped. "Tentacles. Squeezing. Worship Master. Surrender. Everything. All. Ahhhhh....deep in my mind, tickling...feel them, oh so nice."

"That's right." Static played over my hand as I smacked Michiko's tight asscheeks. "Now, we're going to get Kathy on her back while you eat her out--oh. Heh. No."

"What?" Michiko rocked on her knees. "What do you want, it's like a million shocks on my clit, all the time, please--"

"Say, can you control your bolts now?" Going to my "activity drawer" in the bureau, I took out a violet wand and a bottle of lube. "Master gives you perfect control, Master controls his pretty little fuckpet."

"Yes." Both girls writhed at the phrase that rang in their addled brains.

"Feel this." I didn't bother applying lube to Michiko's skin. The glowing purple glass electrode sent sparks over her skin, not burning it at all. I played with it from it's softest setting to most intense.

"Tickles."

"Can you do the sparks just like that?" I carresed her lips. "Right there, not your hands. It's all in the mind, feel my words slither like tentacles in your wet brain."

"I--" Tiny electric arcs crackled over her lips. "Wow, wow, never thought."

"Don't think." I put aside the wand. "Just kneel and obey Master...and kiss Kathy with those lovely lovely lips."

Kathy uttered a strangled scream of terror.

"Noooooooo!" Almost fully conscious, Michiko writhed as her reluctance to hurt her sensitive friend warred with the impusle to submit with each contrary thought. A spiral of feedback that could end only in one way. "No, I must--Kathy, forgive...I...must...obey."

I bound Michiko's wrists behind her with the silver scarf from her old uniform. Eyes empty, she knelt while I guided Kathy onto her back. The flame-haired girl trembled at what was to come. The thought of the shock clearly scared her witless. The musk rising from her moist cleft betrayed her body's anticipation of the touch of Michiko's electrified lips and tongue. Her best friend. Her lover, so shameful, she wasn't a lesbian, but it felt so good when they touched each other now. Leather cuffs at her wrists and spread ankles chained her spreadeagled to the headboard and bedposts. In a vulnerable "Eiffel" spread eagle, she pleaded for mercy before I wedged the knot in the middle of her own yellow sash into her mouth. I tied the ends under her hair. Michiko knee crawled as I applied lube all over Kathy's body--breasts, belly, inner thighs, smooth pussy. Kathy screamed when her dark-haired friend and lover pursed her lips over one heaving teat. A cascade of white-blue sparks tormented her breast as Michiko "air-kissed" a spiral up the full mound. A single, sharper bolt lashed the nipple crowning it.

Michiko's cunt was oh so tight and wet when I rammed into her from behind. Clutching her hips, I pounded into the beautiful Asian superheroine while her friend screamed in agony and lust beneath electric kisses. Her maidenhead shattered...and her mind along with it. A single whole-body shudder was the only sign as the raw pleasure of her Master's cock finally reaping her virginity tore apart her psyche. Michiko lost herself to the trance forever while her friend begged her to stop and more, oh Master, more, hurts so good through the gag. Any remaining hesitancy gone, the girl once known as Tempest kissed down her friends belly to the steaming hot pussy offered up with bucking hips. A tongue tip traced electric fire up her folds. Kathy's eyes rolled back in her head while I struggled not to release too soon. Michiko's slave training was excellent. Her pussy milked me with enthusiasm while she attended to her slave-sister's erotic torture. Kathy wailed when a lapping tongue teased aside the hood to bathe her clit with a shower of sparks. The trance-energy fed through her clit mingled with the pain and pleasure.

Michiko collapsed when I released a trancebolt deep into her womb.

Kathy gazed up at me with sightless eyes. The green was almost gone, swallowed by wide open pupils.

The fire within her swirled and consumed memory and will and mind as I took her last shred of her old life from her.

Christ, this was it, so tight, so light, so...

Light?

I looked down as I came, cock exploding in exquisite pleasure for the third time this evening. Kathy's body arched beneath me, her heat haze a bright aura.

The bed three feet off the floor, drawn up as Flare flew into the fire inside. Her wrists and ankles strained at bearing the weight of the bed and two other people. Her cunt convulsed, trapping my cock in hot wet ectstacy. Then she collapsed. Along with her hover.

crack

Ow.

Note to self. Bolt down bed next time.