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From: CobaltJade@aol.com
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Subject: {ASSM} [NEW] Paragon vs. Plastica  3/15  (M/F, F/F, superhero, bondage, D/s, mc, statue)
Date: Tue, 24 Sep 2002 00:10:05 -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 3: Welcome to the Dollhouse


Plastica spread the papers over the carpeted floor of Paula Jean's condo. 
They controlled the formation of a new mannequin production company for which 
she would be the chief owner, stockholder, and CEO. 

*Plastic Fantastic,* she decided. That would be its name. 

#

Lori took her seat at the gleaming black table where the members of Team 
Paragon gave their weekly reports. They met in the "empty" loft next door to 
Cinnabar's and Lori's own, which served as the team's headquarters. Thick, 
steel-reinforced walls made it nearly impenetrable. It had to be, as it 
housed scientific equipment, vehicles, records, and the teams' increasingly 
sophisticated surveillance and computer equipment. It hadn't been breached... 
yet, but then, most criminals wouldn't be so bold. They, along with 
superheroes, operated in the gray area between the mundane world of law and 
order and the fantastic realm of science fiction and fantasy, and a code of 
mutual silence between the two ensured only heavily edited adventures ever 
made the press.

Blue Cymbidium -- real name Noelani Walker -- took her seat first. She was 
the most beautiful woman Lori had ever seen: half-black, half Hawaiian, with 
honey-tan skin and long black hair. Her petite build belied her martial arts 
skills, and she was also an accomplished markswoman. She still wore her 
superhero costume, which told Lori she'd come in off the job. She greeted 
everyone with a cheerful hello and took her seat at the gleaming oval table.

Next in was Allison, White Rose, who'd come from the gym. She had been trying 
to build her muscle mass all summer. Allison didn't really need to, as her 
telepathic and telekinetic powers -- as well as the aid of her magical winged 
lion, Nemiah -- more than made up for her lack of physical strength, but she 
considered it a challenge to prove herself as strong as the others. She took 
a swig from her squeeze bottle, taking a seat to Lori's left. 

Last in was Chrystar. Gina was a former dancer before becoming a makeup 
artist and had come directly from the set. She wore comfortable clothes for 
working, jeans, T-shirts and sneakers, and plunked her kit down on the table 
in front of her. "I've got to run after this meeting, kids," she announced. 
"Mr. Schwartzenegger is still half an android!" This brought howls of 
laughter from everyone around the table.

Lori caught Cinnabar's eye. The meeting was due to begin fifteen minutes ago, 
yet Shana was still missing. Only she and Lori knew the superheroine hadn't 
called in.

"Let's begin shall we?" Cinnabar said briskly.

The senior crimefighter gave her overview for the week, using an overhead 
projector to go over schedules and show maps and other graphics. Since the 
team had stopped the French terrorists two months ago (working in conjunction 
with a French superhero known as Mirage Fanstastique) things had been quiet, 
both in LA and around the world. The team used breathers like this to "help 
clean up our own backyards," in Cinnabar's words, which meant foiling petty 
robberies, negotiating disputes, and preventing natural disasters. Allison 
had saved some campers from a mudslide in the mountains and gone back to 
shore up the cliff so it wouldn't endanger others. Noelani continued her work 
with LA gangs, foiling several drive-bys and helping some members to redirect 
their lives. Gina had been too busy with her latest movie to do anything, 
though she lent her muscle power to Noelani once or twice. Lori -- as Arctica 
-- had foiled several robberies on the docks down by Long Beach, where a 
criminal gang was obviously operating. She'd wanted to investigate further, 
but was hampered because of her class schedule. 

"Can you help her, Allison?" Cinnabar said.

"Sure," Allison said. "Let's get together after the meeting, OK?"

After the individual reports had ended Cinnabar closed the meeting with news 
of probable trouble ahead. A trio of female assassins known as the Birds of 
Paradise had been reported on the West Coast. ALOSH -- the American League of 
Superheroes -- suspected they might seek employment in the California movie 
industry to gain them contacts to take out their targets. She flashed their 
pictures on the screen. "All of you, keep your eyes open," she said.

Then they tore into the pizzas Lori ordered delivered earlier.

Lori pulled Cinnabar aside as she gathered up her transparencies. "Sorry, 
Cinn, but I have to talk to you in private," she whispered.

"What is it?" the older crimefighter said. Noelani was exotic, but Cinnabar 
was no less stunning. She had long, curly Pre-Raphaelite hair, red-brown as a 
fox's hide, and steel-blue eyes. Her gaze were commanding and direct. She was 
the most experienced of the team, with over twelve years in the business, and 
the stress showed itself in small lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. 

Lori glanced back at the others, who were cracking jokes about their work. "I 
went to Sexateria today."

"That?" Cinnabar said with a surprised laugh. "There's nothing wrong with a 
little healthy exploration. After all you're twenty-two."

"No," Lori said fiercely. "I went into the clothing department and there was 
a mannequin there...I swear it looked like Shana. *Was,/i> Shana, it looked 
that real."

Cinnabar stiffened. She knew firsthand the strange predicaments that befell 
costumed crimefighters. "Are you sure?"

"I didn't get to look at the face for long. But... it was so real, Cinn. And 
the expression so... so trapped. I don't know." She ran her hand through her 
ash-blonde hair. "Maybe it was only a mannequin. They're doing such advanced 
things today with casting and modeling, new types of plastics. It could have 
been my imagination working overtime."

"Your concerns are legitimate," Cinnabar whispered. "We'll check it out 
tomorrow, okay? When the others have left we'll check up on her apartment 
too. She may have left some computer files; she may have been on to 
something. But let's hope she wasn't, that she's there in bed with some man 
or watching TV."

Lori nodded. Cinnabar's hand squeezed her shoulder.

#

They arrived at Shana's Van Nuys apartment around midnight. The lights were 
off. Cinnabar used her extra key to gain access; she kept duplicates for all 
the members of Team Paragon. Inside it was clear the superheroine had not 
been there for a few days. Plants were wilting and her cat starving, meowing 
and wrapping himself around their ankles. Lori fed him some crunchies in a 
bowl while Cinnabar did a once-over of the area, looking for signs of fowl 
play. She encouraged her teammates to keep records of phone calls and hunches 
so they could be traced if things went wrong, but Lori knew the advice was 
often impossible to follow in the heat of the chase. Shana hadn't liked it. 
"What if someone breaks in, and uses it to trace us?" she'd said. Cinnabar 
couldn't argue with that.

Lori looked over the papers on Shana's desk: a catalog for Sexateria and a 
stockholder's report, plus computer printouts of press releases. She leafed 
through the report. One name and face had been circled: Paula Jean Estes, 
Vice President of Merchandising. Paula Jean was stylish but not too flashy, 
in her mid-thirties maybe, with a perky smile and light brown hair she wore 
in a Hillary Clinton sweep. Modest pearl earrings flashed from her earlobes.

"Nothing," Cinnabar said, coming back to her. "Whatever happened to Shana, it 
didn't happen here." 

"Look at this." Lori showed her the circled picture. "There has to be a 
connection."

"Hmm." Cinnabar said. "I'd better check her last session." She turned on 
Shana's computer, using the passwords she had memorized. All team members 
were computerized, with network links back to the loft and the West Coast 
ALOSH headquarters. In addition, they all had a program that traced computer 
activity -- a snapshot of every session in effect -- so the lines of their 
research and reasoning could be traced. 

Lori watched as Cinnabar keyed into the program, tracing the session that 
Shana must have had. "Uh-oh," she said. "Looks like Plastica's back."

"Oh no," Lori said.

"Yeah, we thought she joined the great hereafter when that oil rig went 
kablooie last year. But apparently not. These records say she slipped back 
into the country six months ago under her old name, Dr. Polly Mehr." She 
pointed at the screen. "And that name, through several phony trusts, bought 
the old Bondmadchen mannequin factory three weeks ago." She narrowed her eyes 
at Paula Jean Estes' sweetly dimpled face. "Hmmm...I wonder if those two are 
connected?"

"She may even be Paula Jean Estes. She's a master of disguise, remember?" 
Lori said darkly.

"I put that beyond Plastica's talents," Cinnabar said. "She's simply too 
tacky to imitate an executive. Still, it wouldn't hurt to investigate... if 
you're up to it."

"Hell, I'm up to it!" Lori said. "Anything to find out what happened to 
Shana."

"The day after tomorrow, then. After all, you have your classes."

Lori groaned.

#

Aubrey Cantrell squinted at the address in her hand. 67900 La Cienega. Not 
the most auspicious location for a modeling agency. Yet there it was: Plastic 
Fantastic. What an odd name.

She hoisted her portfolio and crossed the busy street. The agency said to 
take a cab or the bus, which was ridiculous, as there looked to be plenty of 
parking space around. But any hoops they wanted her to jump, hey, she'd jump 
them. It was hard enough to get a break in this business. 

She'd arrived in town only three months, supporting herself with waitressing 
and piecemeal modeling jobs while waiting for her big break. The big agencies 
didn't want her, so she'd had to settle for smaller gigs like this one. She'd 
immediately glommed on to the ad in Variety: BEGINNERS WELCOME. The agency 
asked for a head shot, a full-body lingerie or bathing suit shot, and a brief 
personal history. That was odd, but this LA. Maybe they had an astrologer on 
staff or something.

They also wanted the material Fed-Expressed. A big bite out of her budget, 
but, as the ad said, they needed models immediately. It must have been true, 
because within hours she'd gotten the call.

She walked in and announced herself to the receptionist. "Hi, I'm Aubrey 
Cantrell. I'm here for my test shoot."

"Oh yes," the receptionist said, leafing through an appointment book. She was 
a very pretty young black woman with full lips and long, soft woolly hair 
that looked like a llama pelt. "Why don't you have a seat. We've been 
shooting girls all day and we're running a little late. There's coffee and 
tea on the table if you're interested."

"Thank you," Aubrey said. She always tried to be polite, though it was likely 
a mere receptionist couldn't influence the agency director's decision. The 
other would-be models regarded her with frosty glances. Lori was used to it. 
She called it the LA glower, for if she was picked, there would be one less 
slot for the rest of them. The more experienced ones, who were used to 
waiting in places like this, simply looked indifferent.

Aubrey poured herself a cup of coffee and took her seat. There were a lot of 
beautiful women here. Blondes, brunettes, blacks and Hispanics, even a 
breathtaking Chinese girl. She saw the Kate Moss look repeated ad infinitum, 
a few vampish Louise Brooks types, and a Tyra Banks imitator. She herself was 
a little of a throwback, a Cindy Crawford girl -- city sophistication with 
down-home charm, as an agent once tried to describe her.

She crossed her long legs and swept back her long honey-blonde hair -- 
emboldened lately with eighty-dollar streaks -- and waited. The Chinese girl 
went in and came out, then a suave-looking girl with short black hair, then 
it was her turn.

"Hi, I'm Iza, Ms. Nyll's assistant," said a short, bouncy girl with smooth 
dark hair, dressed as bizarrely as a modeling agency's assistant could in Los 
Angeles. "Come with me."

Portfolio nervously clutched in one hand, Aubrey followed the girl through a 
short hall into a large studio complete with lights and camera equipment. She 
noticed another studio through an ajar door, but this an assistant closed 
before her eyes could linger. Iza quickly directed her into the empty one. 
"This is Aubrey Cantrell," she said, introducing Aubrey to a tall woman who 
sat in a folding metal chair.

"How do you do," the woman said, rising to shake Aubrey's hand. "I'm Vi -- 
Vivian -- Nyll."

Aubrey tried to smile warmly, but the woman's grip disoriented her. It was 
too strong for her build and seemed... plastic, somehow, the skin too smooth 
and evenly textured. Vi Nyll was a looker though. She could be a supermodel 
herself, tall and slim with slender hips, long shapely legs, and a perfectly 
proportioned oval face with high cheekbones and soft, full lips. She wore an 
expensive silk suit with very high heels and had short chin length hair so 
red it was almost magenta. "As you know, Aubrey, we're putting together a 
catalog at the very last minute for a new sportswear company and time is of 
the essence, so I apologize for this rather rushed interview and photoshoot. 
You've brought your portfolio?" Aubrey nodded. "Great. Let's go through the 
pictures."

They sat down at a folding table and more metal chairs so Vi and her 
assistant could look while the photographer tooled with his lights. The book 
contained all the evidence of Aubrey's career up to that point in time. She 
watched nervously as Vi quickly flipped it through. Every once in a while Vi 
would make some comment or point her finger saying, "Yes, that," and her 
assistant would agree. There seemed to be no pattern to what they found 
pleasing.

As they flipped Vi spoke with her in a warm, convivial tone that had a trace 
of a southern accent. "You say you live alone in LA, right?"

"That's right."

"No boyfriend? Close friends?"

Aubrey swallowed. "Well, I'm new in town..."

"Do you have another job?"

"No, just temp ones. I ended the last one two days ago."

Vi closed the portfolio and looked up at her. "You've got a wonderful 
portfolio, Aubrey, and experience besides. I'd like to get some shots of you 
now, prelims, to get an idea of how you pose. Your street clothes will be 
fine."

Aubrey suspected they'd ask her to pose, so she had fussed for hours over her 
hair and makeup, finally deciding on a hip downtown look: short skirt, zip-up 
jacket, tall black boots. She stood awkwardly in front of a roll of white 
paper. "Hi, I'm Tiger," the young, obviously gay, photographer told her. 
"Just relax now. I'm going to shoot a few rolls." He adjusted the lights, and 
began to shoot, telling her what poses to take in the model-ese she was used 
to.

Posing was still a novelty as she was so new to the field, but she was not so 
new that she didn't know what to do. So she sat on the little stool he 
provided, stalked, strutted, swept her hair up in her arms, bent, arched, 
jumped. Vi and Iza watched her like wolves. There was something weird about 
their intensity. Aubrey almost felt she wasn't a human being to them; more 
like a commodity, like a new car. But she'd grown used to that look.

After five minutes Vi called a halt. "You pose well, Aubrey. Now we'd like to 
see you in a swimsuit shot. What size do you wear?"

Aubrey smiled, ecstatic at the hurdles she'd passed so far. "Seven bottom and 
top."

"Here you go," Iza said, handing her a new white bikini still wrapped in a 
plastic envelope. "Follow me to the shower."

"I have to shower?" Aubrey said. Neither the ad or the call had mentioned 
this.

"Er, yes. There's a lot of swimwear in this catalog, and the company wants 
wet shots for them. We'd like you to shower nude, using the soap and shampoo 
we've provided -- it'll give a gloss to your skin and hair that'll make you 
look your best for the camera."

"Oh, okay." Iza led her though a dark back hall into a small, rather cramped 
bathroom with a large shower. It had floor-to-ceiling doors of thick glass 
and a sophisticated nozzle arrangement. *Funny,* she thought. It looked too 
high-tech for this low-rent place, which obviously hadn't been at this 
address for long. On a shelf inside the shower were a plain bottle of shampoo 
and a bar of soap. 

"Use as much of that as you need," Iza said. "The more, the better! You want 
to look good, don't you?"

"Yes, " Aubrey said. 

"Good. Take your time." She closed the door.

Aubrey looked around at the sterile white tiles, her heart beating in a 
strange tattoo. *Silly,* she thought. *It's only a bathroom.* She undressed 
and hung her purse and clothing on the hangers provided, then squirmed out of 
her bra and panties. She felt herself smile as she looked in the mirror. She 
looked good. Daily trips to the gym, not an ounce of fat anywhere, judicious 
sessions in a tanning booth to bring out a healthy glow. She cupped her 
breasts, enjoying their firmness, then stepped into the shower. The doors 
latched shut behind her. She turned on the spray, adjusting its temperature 
and angle.

She wet herself all over, slicking back her hair; her carefully crafted face 
and hairstyle going down the drain. Well no matter. They had served her well. 
She took up the bar of soap. It had a fresh, pleasant smell with an undertone 
she couldn't identify. Musk? Roses? She ran the bar over her body, working up 
a dense, delicious lather. Her flesh felt smooth and slick under her palms 
and her skin began to tingle delightfully. The fresh scent filled her 
nostrils. Yes, she was definitely going to land this gig. She could feel it! 

She took up the bottle of shampoo and began to soap her hair. Again, the 
smell was wonderful. She closed her eyes, letting the suds run down her face. 
An overwhelming sensual languor overtook her. Her limbs felt heavy, her 
muscles luxuriously slack. It should have alarmed her, but it didn't; she 
wanted only to enjoy it. Leaving the suds in her hair, her hands moved to her 
nipples, pinching and pulling through the thick layer of soap. She ran her 
hands over her torso, delighting in the feel of it, and pressed her fingers 
into her pussy. She clenched her hand between her thighs, rubbing her clit in 
smooth circular motions. She forgot about the swimsuit and photoshoot, forgot 
about soaping herself. There was only her pleasure.

The warm spray continued to pelt down on her, washing away the foam on her 
body and scalp. The smell grew less overpowering. With it came another 
strange sensation. Instead of a layer of slick, heavy hair, the spray was 
needling on her bare scalp! Her eyes snapped open in surprise. There, 
swimming in the water at her feet, were the long strands of blonde hair that 
formerly graced her scalp. They now performing a graceful spiral down the 
drain with the yellow frizz that framed her pussy. 

Her hands flew to her scalp. She was bald! What the hell had that soap done 
to her? She glanced down at her body. Denuded. Hairless. Smooth as a peeled 
hard-boiled egg. Everywhere... even her eyebrows and eyelashes.

"Fuck!" she swore. It must have been a freak chemical reaction. She grabbed 
the shower door handle. Nothing happened.

She rattled the handle, then shoved her whole weight against the doors. They 
were locked. She banged with her fists, her feet. "Hey! Let me out of here! 
I'm stuck!" She tried turning the tap off to see if that did the trick, but 
the controls wouldn't budge. The warm water continued to wash over her, now 
sounding like a monsoon inside the glass-walled square.

"Help! I'm trapped in here! Somebody come, please hurry -- " Her words 
trailed off as more of that mysterious scent drifted in. Trapped, she 
couldn't help breathing it in. Oh, it was delicious. She forgot about her 
panic. On the second whiff, she ran her heads over her breasts, moaning in 
pleasure.

The water formed droplets that became lighter and lighter, then a fine mist 
with a warm pinkish tinge. Aubrey gasped in sexual enjoyment, spreading her 
legs to rub herself with both hands... forgetting all about the loss of her 
hair, even her name and why she was there. Her orgasm built in an upward 
glide as slow and perfect as a California sunset, the pink mist swirling into 
her lungs, into her bloodstream. She even felt it drift up through her sex. 
It transfixed her, holding her in a frozen state that was almost but not 
quite orgasmic, a moment so serene and diamond-perfect she stopped her 
self-pleasure and merely stood with her arms at her sides, legs slightly 
apart, her head raised to drink it in directly.

Waves of warmth rippled across her skin, creating a pleasant numbing 
sensation both inside and out. Her limbs went from a dreamy languor to total 
immobility. She no longer breathed. She no longer blinked. Her skin tightened 
all over her body with an erotic, electric sensation, then she felt nothing 
at all. The warm feeling remained, holding her in blissful stasis. 

The gas dissipated through a fan in the ceiling of the stall. It reversed 
direction to blow hot air down on her, drying her, then stopped. She stood in 
the shower, nude, hairless, and powerless to move. She heard the bathroom 
door open, but she couldn't turn her head to see. Then the shower door opened.

It was Vi and her assistant. "Oh, lovely!" Iza said. She grabbed Aubrey by 
the waist and lifted her out as if she weighed no more than a child. "You 
were right about her. I wasn't so sure."

Aubrey caught a glimpse of herself as she passed before the mirror. Her 
facial features remained frozen in a sensual half-smile, and her skin was 
hard and smooth. The warm flesh color of her skin was completely even in 
tone. No pores or pimples marred its glossy surface. Her breasts didn't 
jiggle as Iza set her down. They remained firm and rigid, the nipples hard 
and erect. Almost as if she was...

As if she was...

As if she was a mannequin.

Vi grasped her arm and bent it from the elbow, bringing her hand up to her 
shoulder, then bent it back down. "She's flexible. Good."

"Screamed a lot, though."

"That's why we got soundproof glass."

"Did you see how she was getting off?" Iza said with a nasty laugh. "What a 
slut. Did you get it on tape?"

"Uh-huh," Vi said. She took out a magic market and wrote something on the top 
of Aubrey's shiny plastic skull. "W-BL03-F1-006. Remember it Iza. That's her 
serial number."

"Gotcha," Iza said, recording the information in her notebook. "Aubrey 
Cantrell, now W-BL03-F1-006."

"Neat!" the black receptionist said, poking her head in the door. "I knew 
she'd make a good one." She held out her smooth pink palm; Iza high-fived it. 
"Sarah Jackson is waiting in Studio Two for her shoot, and there's about ten 
more girls after her."

"The one from Chicago?"

"Uh-huh. Dolly time!" She laughed.

"I've got to run," Vi said. "Order me some take-out, will you? It looks like 
we'll be here all day." She gave Aubrey a last glance, making sure everything 
was perfect. "Take her to the truck, load her. Then clean this place up. Get 
rid of those clothes, and especially that purse, in the incinerator. Oh  --  
and that stupid portfolio too." She scooped up the unused bikini, still in 
the plastic wrapper, as she and Iza left.

*She has another appointment,* Aubrey thought in amazement. Another victim, 
she amended. A girl like herself, a model or actress, who would be 
transformed into a mannequin.

As she had been.

She wanted to scream, but her jaws remained caught in the same stupid, 
sensual smile. She didn't have the energy anyway. She felt so warm, so solid 
and rigid and suspended. She felt her mind drift. *My name is Aubrey 
Cantrell... I live in a... house? An apartment?  I drive a... a...* she could 
no longer remember. It was so much easier not to think, only absorb.

The black girl grinned at her. "Come this way honey. Oh, are you going to 
like your new life." She placed Aubrey on a two-wheeled cart, tipping her 
back so she stared up at the light fixtures. "You're going to Sexateria, 
where you'll be modeling all the latest lingerie and fetishwear. Rubber 
dresses, leather harnesses, nighties... you name it." Aubrey couldn't move 
her eyes; she could only watch the ceiling as she was wheeled away, the black 
girl's voice a soothing purr. She was a mannequin. No longer Aubrey Can... 
whatever it was. Only a mannequin.

The girl took her into a large van where eight other mannequins had been 
secured in metal racks. They stood in the same position she did: bald, shiny 
heads staring ahead, arms down, legs parted. Every crevice and curve, even 
their sexual organs, had been rendered in perfect detail. Plastic... and 
perfect. She'd always wanted to be a model. Now she was.

The black girl slid her into position at the end of the rack, securing her 
with  webbed plastic straps she wouldn't jostle while in transit. Then she 
patted Aubrey's cheek and left her there.

Aubrey waited with wide blank eyes. Twenty minutes later another mannequin 
came to join her, the caramel-colored Tyra Banks clone, shutting off her view 
of the rest.  

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