Power Girl

They moved down the cramped hallway. Some of the noises from the rooms filtered through into the darkness—the banging of headboards against wall, soft moans and hard grunts...and there were chalk signs, Lois noticed, here and there, on the walls and floors. Strange squiggles that reminded her of runes, magic circles...she was about to ask Maria about them, when the red-and-pink haired woman stopped, and motioned the reporter to another spyhole. Lois bent down, perhaps a bit too eagerly.

The room was mirrored on all sides, ceiling and floor parallel planes of glass with soft lighting installed at the edges, while against the walls were covered by mirrored panels which hid soft, each set at a slightly different angle, so that the infinite reflections varied a little. Yet all Lois could see, everywhere she looked, were the soft curves of breasts.

In the center of the room, a parody of Power Girl sat on a crystal plinth, one red gloved hand idly playing with her clit, a bored and vacant expression in her eyes. The imitation was far from perfect, the woman neither as muscular nor as pretty as the real thing—her eyes were a little too wide, her face a little too broad and there was a slight gap between her front teeth; the hair was a cornsilk shock straight from a bottle. But it was her tits that caught and held Lois' attention.

The material of the costume was white, and followed the general lines of Power Girl's one-piece, but the material was sheer, almost see-through, to leave nothing to the imagination. The orbs which stretched the white fabric almost to the breaking point were larger than Lois' head, and looked absurd on the woman's trim body. They hung down to her navel, based just on weight, but stood out round and firm, the nipples at least a foot from her chest, and left a deep cleavage like a ski-slope. Through the breast-window on the uniform, Lois could make out a scattering of freckles across the tops of those twin mounds, and through the thin fabric should see the thick rings piercing nipples as thick as her pinkie-tip.

It was monstrous. Grotesque. Yet as the faux-Power Girl shifted, to dig the strap of the uniform out of the crack of her ass, the breasts wobbled and shifted in turn...not like silicone implants, or the string implants of famous big bust performs, but the characteristic shimmy of actual tits. Lois could only stare in wonder as the boobquake subsided. She had seen puff pieces on gigantomastia, the rare medical condition that caused **** breast growth, reach sizes approaching this, but in every case those tits had been saggy, floppy, the areola stretched to thin circles of discoloration, nipples almost flat mosquito bites, ruined by stretchmarks... none of which Lois could see here.

Then she studied the face again...and it clicked in Lois' memory. One of the missing women. Jenny Dunlap, 22. Majoring in Modern Dance. The one picture Lois had dug up showed she was skinny...and flat. Not a spare ounce on her.

"What happened to her?" Lois whispered.

"Nothing she didn't ask for," Maria said. "Did you want to talk to her?"