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Subject: {ASSM} [NEW] Paragon vs. Plastica  12/15  (M/F, F/F, superhero, bondage, D/s, mc, statue)
Date: Tue, 24 Sep 2002 18:10:03 -0400
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Paragon vs. Plastica

by Cobalt Jade (cobaltjade@aol.com)


This work is copyrighted 2002-2003 by Cobalt Jade (Cobaltjade@aol.com). This 
work may be be freely distributed over electronic media provided no fee is 
charged for its use. This work may be archived only with the author's 
permission.  Charging a fee for this story, or publishing without author 
credit or this notice violates my copyright.

The complete story may be read at my websites: 

http://members.aol.com/cobaltjade

OR

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




Chapter 12: Glittering Prizes



Lori watched the warehouse floor with frozen eyes. She was sealed inside a 
transparent sphere along with a couple hundred gallons of water. She should 
have drowned, except she was as plastic as the drifting snowflakes circling 
slowly around her. 

*Snowglobe. I'm trapped inside a giant snowglobe.* Her thoughts were slow and 
muzzy, but she knew Cal must escaped, or Plastica would have been torturing 
her by threatening to hurt him. Had he made it back to his apartment? Or was 
he lying dead or dying somewhere in the tangled swamps that surrounded the 
plant? A dull panic seized her, but found no outlet. *Please God, let him be 
safe...*

Her own future did not look sanguine. In front of a velvet curtain across 
from her stood the blue-violet mannequin of Noelani and the bald, denuded 
figure of Shana on her stand. To her left, though Lori currently could not 
see her, was Gina in her crystal tomb. All of them had been arranged as if 
they were samples in a showcase, lit by halogen spotlights from above. 
Plastica had placed them there earlier that morning. Lori noticed she'd left 
two empty spaces. She couldn't read the names on the plaques before them, but 
she could guess who they were. Of Team Paragon, only Cinnabar and Allison 
were still free.

*What does that bitch mean to do to us?*

She could only watch and wait, helpless, as the snowflakes drifted gently 
before her. 

She did not wait long. Motion entered the corner of her vision: Iza, the more 
businesslike and collected of Plastica's two henchwomen. In one hand she held 
a colorful sheath of papers, brochures or catalogs, it looked like, along 
with a calculator. She was leading a group of six others, some dressed in 
suits, others in the wilder garb common to the fashion and retail display 
industry. When she reached Lori and the others she began to talk, a winning 
smile on her face, gesturing at their bodies as if they were glittering 
prizes arranged on a shelf.

Glittering prizes... *oh no, not that.*

She commanded her body to move, her wintry ice blast to come; but nothing 
happened. She was trapped. And she knew with panicked surety that she, and 
the others, were being sold.

#

"I finally found out why our antidote worked," Darlene announced. She tapped 
ARTIE's latest printout. "It was Plastica's blood!"

"Holy Corpuscle," Cal muttered, remembering how he'd bitten Plastica on the 
hand. "I thought it had a strange taste..."

"You bit her!" Allison said with delight.

"With pleasure," Cal said grimly. It was a good thing he'd had, or Cinnabar 
wouldn't be walking around right now, and he would be as plastic as the 
molded office chair he was sitting on. 

"Plastica must have been using variations of the same compounds on herself," 
Darlene mused. "To test them, maybe, or alter her own bone and muscle 
structure. Traces of them must have been lingering in her blood. So when you 
bit her, you swallowed some along with your saliva." She chuckled at Cal's 
expression. "I bet she never dreamed she would help create her own antidote."

"How many doses of it can you make?" Cinnabar said. Her eyes swept to the 
clock; it was early afternoon, and they all knew time was of the essence.

"ARTIE can make about twelve with the supplies he has now," Darlene said. 
"That should be enough for Lori and Shana, and any other team members who 
got... who ran into Plastica." Her phrasing was discreet. Neither Gina nor 
Noelani had returned to HQ; neither had they left messages. 

"Good. Do it." Cinnabar said. She still looked affected by her experience, go
ing by her posture and the dark circles under her eyes. "We'll move in on her 
tonight."

"She'll be on her guard," Allison warned.

"So will we," Cinnabar said. "But we have the advantage. Remember she won't 
be expecting an antidote." She reached back to put her long auburn hair into 
a ponytail, the tired gesture belying her confidence. "Allison, I want you to 
go to the gym after this," she added. "There's still a chance Gina or Noelani 
might be there." 

"I want to go with you guys," Cal said with determination.

The three superheroines looked at each other. Cal felt his heart sink. "No," 
Cinnabar said. "It's too dangerous. You'd only be in the way."

"I can wait in the car," he begged. "I can be the driver, the same way 
Allison was last night. You might need me. To go get help if you run into 
trouble, if nothing else." The womens' negative expressions remained 
unchanged. He had to do more to convince them. "Look, it's my fault Lori got 
captured in the first place! She went to the factory because of me. And she 
didn't ask you guys for help because of me. Like it or not, I'm the one at 
fault. And I want to make up for it. If you tell me no, I'll follow you 
anyway. You can't stop me."

"No, but your leg can," Cinnabar said.

She was right. He needed crutches to get around on; he wouldn't even be able 
to use the gas pedal. He was useless. And if the three failed in their 
mission, that would be his fault too.

"Wait," Darlene said softly. "There is something you can do, Cal..."

#

Plastica gave a loud sigh of frustration. She'd been watching Cinnabar's 
penthouse all afternoon but the blinds remained drawn. If the superheroine 
had been freed Plastica saw no sign of it. Neither had Phanxine, who'd staked 
out the place from street level. Maybe she should just scale the building and 
dump a tankful of the plastification gas into the ventilation system. At 
least that way, she'd be sure. There'd be innocent casualties, of course, but 
that had never bothered her. The more mannequins, the merrier. 

"Hey Boss," Phanxine's voice crackled in her ears, "Take a look. Someone's 
leaving."

Plastica swept her binoculars to the front of the building. A slim, athletic 
figure had stepped outside, car keys jangling in her hand. It wasn't 
Cinnabar, however. It was Allison Cope: White Rose. 

So Team Paragon was planning something! "Follow her," Plastica ordered, 
speaking into the tiny microphone suspended in front of her mouth.  "Keep me 
posted. I'll be right in back of you in the Maserati." She tugged out her 
earplug and turned from the balcony, grinning at the sight she'd left behind 
on the bed. The two girls whose house she'd broken into to gain this perch 
lay tied to the frame and each other, struggling in vain to loose their 
tautly stretched limbs. Their naked gyrations were most appealing. 

"There, there," she said mockingly. "Don't tell me you two aren't enjoying 
it."

Strangled whimpers were her only answer. They couldn't say anything more; 
bound as they were in a 69 position, they were effectively gagged by each 
other's crotches. The girl on top tried to raise her head to look at her but 
was able only to lift her eyes, which were bright with tears of fear. 

"You're welcome," Plastica chortled. She raised her gas gun. "And thank you, 
for letting me borrow your balcony. But it's time I was leaving." 

The girl's eyes grew moister, her throaty protests stronger. Her hips rocked 
in panic over the face of her friend, no doubt contributing an unholy 
pleasure to her plight. The girl beneath her remained ignorant of the danger, 
seeing nothing but her partner's moist, tangled bush.

"Adieu, mon cherie," Plastica crooned. She knew she should leave them there 
for their roommates to find. But she just couldn't resist...

She pulled the trigger, bathing the two in exploding pink gas. They began 
fucking in earnest as the aphrodisiac entered their bloodstreams, the 
buttocks of the girl on top alternately hiding and displaying the moist folds 
of her pussy. So wanton it was... so pink and shaved and helpless. Unable to 
resist, she inserted her fingers and gave the winking slit a reaming of her 
own, the channel hot and slick through the black vinyl of her glove. 

"Yes," she hissed roughly. "Fuck for me, fuck like the little whores you 
are." She was secretly envious of her victims, no matter how cruel their 
fate. The roommates' mingled moans grew stronger as she mirrored their 
motions with her own, her vinyl-clad crotch rubbing rhythmically against the 
bedpost  

Struck by a new perversity, she held her now-slick fingers before the lips of 
the girl tied on the bottom. The blonde took them eagerly into her mouth, 
sucking with gusto on her partner's juices. Plastica chuckled. There was 
contempt in it, but also solidarity. "Ah-ah-ah. That's enough," she chided, 
lifting her hand. "Back to business." She guided the hungry mouth back to its 
main source of nourishment, and with a sigh of ecstasy the blonde reburied 
her face in the moist crotch before her. Her partner responded with a gasp, 
flexing her hips, and fresh fluids soon coursed down the blonde's reddened 
cheeks.

But they were taking too long. Impatient, Plastica slapped the bobbing ass in 
front of her, leaving one red handprint, then two. The encouragement was 
appreciated. The moans grew more bestial, the motions sharper. Plastica 
smacked her again. "Come on, you cunts," she hissed. "Come!"  The redhead 
gave a muffled scream of ecstasy, dimpled buttocks jiggling prettily; beneath 
her the blonde's hips jerked, a monosyllabic mantra keening in her throat. 
Her own pussy banged the bedpost in rhythmic thuds, each jolt marking time. 
So close... so close... she stretched a finger towards the redhead's 
buttocks, probing deep inside the cleft.

With two ululating cries the pair reached their climax. They stiffened, 
shuddering all over like an object in motion suddenly driven to a halt, and 
froze; living skin faded and hardened, taking on the dull sheen of plastic. 
Then, and only then, did Plastica climax herself: *"... aaahhhh... !!!"*

Her cry faded to a gasp. She came back into herself, the lovely orgasms still 
tingling over her skin. Two blank-faced mannequins lay tied to the bed, 
trapped forever in a deviant's bondage fantasy. She laughed. There was 
madness in it, yet also an awareness of her nature. No man could ever give 
her the pleasure her creations did. She could be in danger of losing her 
freedom, her beauty, all her criminal powers... yet still find time to do 
this, her one joy in life, her purpose for existing...

She blew the plastic duo a mocking kiss, and left them to their fate.

She caught up with Phanxine half an hour later outside the entrance of an 
exclusive women's gym. The black girl was leaning on her car, arms folded, 
her eyes glued to the gym's entrance. "Where is she?" Plastica said.

"She's gone inside," Phanxine said, pushing her sunglasses over her forehead. 
"Her car's over there."

With Allison alone and vulnerable in the building, now was the perfect time 
to catch her unawares. "Good. We're going in after her." She sculpted her 
face and flesh into a new guise as a fitness trainer and grabbed the 
duffelbag she kept in the Maserati's trunk. It contained her plastification 
apparatus, among other things. With Phanxine playing the role of her client 
it was no problem to bluff her way into the gym's security room and knock out 
the single guard who'd been stationed there. 

"Find me a map of the building," she ordered, manning the security cameras. 
Phanxine pulled out the building manuals. In a minute or two the cameras 
found Allison, and Plastica was able to follow her on-camera progress from 
room to room. 

"She seems to be looking for something," Phanxine commented. "Or someone."

Plastica grunted noncommittally, but that did look like the case. She watched 
closely as Allison took out her cell phone to make a call. She zoomed in on 
the lens to check the number. "Fuck!" she spat. "That's the number we found 
on Arctica last night. She's calling someone back at Cinnabar's place."

"Cinnabar?" Phanxine said. "But she's... How could she have escaped?"

Plastica didn't know, but it had to be true. Who else would Allison be 
calling? Her heart skipped another beat when the superheroine disappeared 
through an unmarked doorway. She emerged several minutes later in a towel. 
Unaware she was being observed, she headed for the sauna.... where she would 
be trapped. 

Eyes slitting in glee, Plastica gave Phanxine her orders, "Go to the steam 
room and make sure Allison's inside, then lock the door. Make sure no one 
else follows her." She opened the gym bag, handing Phanxine a gas gun. "If 
she comes out... you know how to use this."

Phanxine looked dumbfounded at her orders to take down a superheroine, but 
she did as she was told. When she had left Plastica locked the door to the 
security room, then climbed up on the desk to unscrew the air duct on the 
upper part of the wall; with that she would gain access to the false ceiling 
of the gym. She removed the canister of gas from her bag and pushed it into 
the duct, climbing after it with the torn plan of the building in her mouth. 
So good, so far.

Sliding the heavy tank before her, she crawled through the dark, cramped 
passageways that provided the gym's air circulation. She soon came to the 
area over the steam room. Using the engineering plan she located the pipe 
that carried hot steam from the boiler. Working quickly, she clamped the 
canister's feed valve around it and pierced the metal with the diamond-tipped 
drill. Now the plastification gas would flow minutely out of the canister and 
into the steam, mixing with it, disguised by it. By the time anyone in the 
sauna noticed, it would be too late. 

She checked to see if the gas was flowing evenly; it was. She turned the knob 
up all the way, then slithered back through the duct. Kicking out the next 
air vent she saw, she jumped down into the corridor where Phanxine waited. 
"She's in there?"

"Yah; I checked through the window. She's the only one, too."

"Good." Plastica said. Now it was just a matter of time to tell if her gambit 
had worked.

Five minutes; ten; twenty. The gas canister would be empty by now. Slowly she 
unlocked the door, turning on the exhaust fan to disperse the steam. In 
another few seconds, she entered. 

Her plan had worked. The plasticized body of the superheroine lay stretched 
out on a wooden bench, a plain white towel beneath her. The gas must have 
anesthetized her gradually, causing her to fall into a drowsy languor from 
which she had never awoken. She'd gone down without a struggle. Indeed, by 
the serene look on her face, it had been quite peaceful. By the state of her 
nipples it had been pleasurable as well. Plastica flicked each with her 
fingernail; they were quite rigid. So was the rest of Allison's body... so 
stiffly regal, she might have been a cartouche atop some Egyptian sarcophagus.

But her experience with Chrystar had taught her a lesson. She stood the 
plasticized superheroine on her feet and quickly wrapped several lengths of 
duct tape around her, ensuring she wouldn't be able to move even if she was 
able to. Phanxine peered in through the fading steam, careful not to breath 
it in herself. "Shee-it..." she murmured. "She looks like a chess piece."

The comment gave Plastica an idea. "Go get one of those gym mats and wrap it 
around her. We can carry her out that way with no one the wiser." Phanxine 
complied, and five minutes later they were sliding their odd-shaped bundle 
into the back of the van. To an outside observer, it looked like they were 
moving a rolled-up piece of carpeting. 

"What are you gonna do with her, boss?" Phanxine asked. She sounded genuinely 
curious. "Dump her in the tar pits?"

The awfulness of it gave Plastica goose bumps of pleasure, but she had a 
different fate planned for the superheroine. "No. She's the last of the 
bait." 

#

"Easy Cal," Darlene said.

"Sorry," Cal replied as he backed the little robot away from the wall. 
Ruefully he regarded the beach-ball sized gouge he'd made in the plaster. 
"Whoa. That's pretty impressive."

"Good thing he's made out of titanium," Darlene quipped. She knocked on Cal's 
helmet with her knuckles. "Hey. You're sure you're comfortable wearing that 
thing?"

Call nodded. "Fits like a glove." They'd rigged up the remote-operation 
system earlier that afternoon, slaving ARTIE's circuits via wireless 
transmission to the helmet and visor he wore. That way Cal could 'drive' the 
little robot from the safety of HQ as if he was participating on the mission 
himself. "Do you think he's insulted because I'm in the driver's seat instead 
of him?"

"ARTIE? Nah." While ARTIE was intelligent, he lacked the finer human judgment 
required for a dangerous operation such as the one they were planning, and 
had been selflessly obedient to his mistress's order to vacate his sensorial 
and somatic functions. "Let's see how well you can handle the weapons."

Cal moved ARTIE out of the corner, sending him hovering slowly to the center 
of the floor. In simulation mode he ran through the array: pepper spray, a 
small caliber gun that fired rubber bullets, a laser. "Guess all those years 
of video game addiction were worth it," he said.

"You can use his tools as weapons too," Darlene said. "He has a drill, 
pincers, and a circular saw. The saw can cut through 10-gauge steel." Cal 
flipped the joysticks at his thumbs, causing each new weapon to pop out of 
its slot. At least one of the reasons they were taking him along was that he 
was familiar with Plastica's factory and the dangers it presented. The tools 
could come in very handy for getting into inaccessible areas. If he got 
trapped or in close combat, he could use them.

"How long are his batteries good for?"

"Twelve hours, under normal circumstances. But if it's a combat situation, 
much less. I'd say three, four. That's non-stop action, though. Normally, we 
wouldn't be sustaining that pace." Darlene went on to say that ARTIE was well 
armored too, able to withstand a direct hit from anti-tank fire, though Cal 
found that a little hard to believe. 

The phone rang. Scirocco went to answer it, a tense look on her face. A look 
that got tenser, and paler, when she picked the receiver. Cal heard a female 
voice on the other end speaking briefly. Then silence.

Cinnabar looked blank for a second, and terribly lost; then her resolve 
slammed back. A look of grim determination came over her voice as she hung up 
the receiver. "That was Plastica," she said quietly. "She's captured Allison."

"What?" Darlene said. 

Cinnabar held up her hand, gesturing for silence. "She said she wants me, in 
return for the other members of the team. If I go willingly into sacrifice, 
and let her turn me into a sculpture again. She has no intention of keeping 
the bargain, of course. I'm surprised she even thought I would fall for it. 
But it means we move out. Now."

#

Kylasha the Damned paced restlessly in her library, looking again and again 
at the marble plinth she'd had her slaves install in the corner. Cinnabar was 
to have gone there, rotating so Kylasha could appreciate every inch of her 
mute, embedded plight. But yesterday, and now today, had passed without the 
cube's delivery. Calls to the airport at Athens had produced nothing. They'd 
told her that without a tracking number there was little that could be done.

Kylasha's lips curved in a sardonic bow. Unless one happened to be a 
sorceress, of course...

She touched a panel on the wall, causing one section of bookshelves to slide 
aside. It revealed the dark, narrow passage that led to the hidden rooms 
where she practiced her magic. None of her household staff knew of the 
secret. Her slaves did, but they were slaves, and bidden to keep their mouths 
closed on the matter. Or find themselves in new bodies of marble or bronze, 
instead of flesh and blood. New bodies frozen into very stimulating 
positions...

She smiled a puma's smile, navigating the dark, cramped passage with the ease 
borne through long years of use. Her slaves made the most interesting 
sculptures. More than one had been presented to a minion of hers as reward 
for good service. She didn't do it often, though. Transformation magic was 
very draining for her.  

She came to the sealed door at the tunnel's end and placed her palm against 
the raised metal disk in its center. *"Hat'shwa,"* she commanded. 

The door opened. The high-vaulted Sacrificial Chamber before her burst into 
light. The frescoes glowed with lurid color, the mosaics sparkled. Each 
depicted a highlight from her reign as Queen. The scenes never failed to stir 
her blood, even though this room was only a copy of the one from her palace 
in Bubabis. She'd had to recreate it from a ten thousand-year-old memory, 
frescoes and fixtures included. But the table of sacrifice in the center of 
the room was the real thing; she'd had it excavated from the Sahara two years 
ago. This she now approached, her footsteps stirring the dust. It had been a 
few months since she'd last had the occasion to use it.

She stood at its head. The worn limestone of its surface was slightly 
concave, stained a pale brownish color in its center. Kylasha ran her hand 
over the depression with loving appreciation. So many victims she'd taken in 
this spot, their last gurgling breaths given as sacrifices for the glory of 
their Queen... she remembered the blood, too, barrels of it, that kept 
herself and her favorites forever young and beautiful, and the royal magic 
strong. The dull iron taste came again to her mouth, bringing back an awful 
yearning, a palpable, almost painful wish to see Bubabis rise once again, as 
it would have if Scirocco hadn't interfered with her original plan eight 
years ago.

She lifted her hand, taking a deep breath. She began to chant. The words were 
old as time, older, rising from the misty depths of another age, when the 
great glaciers were receding and the Sahara was green and lush.

*Show me Cinnabar Steele,* she commanded. Above the table the air began to 
shimmer; she concentrated on the swirling images, forcing them to solidify. 
She steeled herself for the delicious sight of the sculpture Plastica had 
promised her. But the magic did not give her that. Instead, she saw a 
white-tiled room, a bed, a table with scientific apparatus set upon it. And a 
painfully familiar figure striding away from her, a long shock of red hair 
swinging from its head...

The figure turned: Cinnabar. And she was not alone.

"NOOO--!" Kylasha howled. Her enemy was free! Cinnabar was alive; the Powers 
didn't lie. With that revelation the image broke apart, reverting to mist. In 
a second, it was sucked down into the table to join with the brown stain that 
had generated it. 

Cursing, she beat against the surface of the stone with her fist. Plastica 
had tricked her. Perhaps she had never captured Cinnabar at all, and had been 
toying with her.. mocking her. Had lied to her, to court her favor. But no 
one made a fool of Kylasha the Damned.

Her anger faded as quickly as it had begun, leaving cold ashes. She began to 
consider what she should do about it. 

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