Barely. And Bryce more than keeps his word.

She'd finished cleaning him, every drop of their shared juices going down her throat and her jumpsuit coming back up around her delicious body. "Are you sure that's what you want to wear as mistress?" Ultraboy asked, entering the last of the changes of he'd agreed to provide for her.

"What else is there?" Shelby asked.

"Check the trunk in the back."

She opened it to find black leather. Lots of it. Or rather, lots of bits, of rather small leather. "And why do you have this, Ultraboy?" The emphasis she put on the last word suggested that maybe he liked dressing up in it, though he wouldn't have fit into the outfit.

"You don't want to know." In fact, Ultramom had tossed them in there along with a lot of other clothes lifted from supervillains (or even more, from their mooks) for the purpose of giving them to the homeless, but she had been too embarrassed to donate the leather outfit of Mr. Invisible's Mistress of Pain who was built quite similar to Shelby. So it lingered in the back of the van, like an erotic and embarrassing reminder of an even more erotic and embarrassing take-down.

"I really, really do. Almost as much as I want to know how to put this on." Shelby said with a smile.

"I'll help. I helped take it off its last owner, after all." With my teeth, he didn't conclude.

"Really?" Shelby asked, incredulously, eyebrows rising as she pulled the jumpsuit off.

"What?" He asked, lifting the collection of leather and steel as he covertly ogled his new partner's/bitch's fantastic body, slim, a hint of muscle on her stomach, long legs, a trimmed landing strip, drawing the eye to lips that spread naturally and just begged to be fucked, then rising to the firm, high b-cups that would fit just perfectly in his hand, unlike her mother's, or his mother's, breasts, which would have spilled out of his hands, her pulse jumped in an ivory neck and ending in sculpted features and cruel blue eyes and blonde hair. An Aryan goddess, she wouldn't have been out of place in Nazi propaganda, or in the fantasies of some Nazi shithead. But she was his, all his, the fantasies of others, but his toy. "You think you know my life because we fight twice a year?" Ultraboy asked as he ran his hands over her body, fitting the leather over it and fixing each metal fastener, then tightening it until it pressed against her flesh, making lines in her unmarked ivory skin.

"Fight?" She asked. "Don't you mean get your ass kicked?"

He tightened her choker around her neck, feeling it bite into her flesh. She choked.

"Too tight." She whispered, hand clawing at the collar.

"What was that?" He asked, politely.

"It's too tight." Vision narrowed and shook as she was choked, her hand fell and she fell to her knees before him, face going red.

"What do you say? What did you say?" He corrected himself, giving her the hint she needed.

"Please, it's too tight, please loosen it." She begged. It was the first time he?d heard her say "please" and the first time he'd heard her beg.

"Of course, why didn't you say so?" He asked, loosening it to merely snug.

She rose and found herself reflected in his eyes. The black skirt ended right under her pussy and ass, though a single leather strap ran over her groin, like a thong, only it wasn't just for her ass, it split her pussy lips too, so every movement made her feel both constrained and aroused as it damn near fingered her with every step. The straps rose to a bustier that supported and lifted her breasts. One pair of straps went over her nipple to meet on the back of her, then the back of her bra another pair went the other way and met at her throat, a quite literal choker, if she wasn't careful. She was beautiful, powerful, dominant and flushed. Her captor/partner/master knelt at her feet, sliding them into black stiletto heels, almost four inches tall, tall enough to let her tower over her mother and even clear Ultraboy's height. She looked down at him, feeling superior for just a moment, then his hand ran up her bare legs and cupped her mound, feeling her wetness. Two fingers penetrated her as he rose, pressing her back against the side of the van, she moaned and her hips twitched down, bringing her clit in contact with the palm of his hand.

Her velvet pussy ground against him, internal muscles pressing against his fingers, she was surprisingly tight, his dick would--not yet--now now--not like this. She was there now, as horny as her mother had been when he left, Monica might have come down, but he rather thought that having been denied, having been left, would have her wet and raring to go. Ultraboy pulled free from her, stepping back and sucking one finger clean, tasting her surprisingly tangy flavor, then offered her those two fingers, one wet from her pussy, one from his mouth. She lowered her head to suck them both clean. She didn't finger herself, she was too proud to do that in front of him, yet. Her tongue was as nimble on his fingers as it had been on his cock.

His hand fell to her waist and he led her out of the garage, into the room where he'd left Monica bound and waiting.