The Black Widow goes on the hunt

It had been a very long few days for Natasha Romanoff.

First, she'd driven all the way to New York. That hadn't been so bad. Sure, she'd been naked, but at least she'd been sitting inside something. She only had to worry about the passing drivers seeing her tits. She had driven with one hand on the wheel, the other cupped to her breasts, doing her best to pretend there was nobody inside the cars that roared past her on the other side of the highway. A little humiliating, but tolerable.

Then she'd parked the car, at a Manhattan branch of Stark Industries where somebody would take care of it, and stepped out onto the street. The busy street. With an endless parade of New Yorkers scurrying back and forth. Natasha had stood on the sidewalk, feeling the cold concrete on her toes, and realised something. Perhaps for the first time.

She was naked.

She didn't have any clothes on.

She was standing there, naked, on a busy street in Manhattan, for everyone to see. Nude. Bare-assed. Undressed. Au naturel. In her birthday suit. Naked. Stark naked, in fact.

Even when Stark had been teasing her in the upstate facility, it hadn't fully sunk in. But this was different. She was in public. Naked in public. Very, very naked in a place that was very, very public. She'd simply stepped out of her car, onto a public street, with no clothes on. And now she was expected to go about her day exactly like this.

Because it was permanent.

Because until she got those panties back, and until the Avengers saved the world, Stark's last wish would hold. Like a million other girls, she'd be walking around in the nude.

She wasn't alone. She watched a beautiful, pale, slender redhead scurry down the street with a pair of coffee cups in her hands, one with the name Karen written on the side. Karen the redhead wore an expression of absolute mortification as she ducked through the traffic, her small tits bouncing and her pert bare bottom flexing while New Yorkers cheered and took snaps on their cell phones. Her hands kept making brief, abortive efforts to cover her body, though the hot coffees made that impossible. Her cheeks glowed crimson with the shame of helpless public exposure, and the surefire knowledge that it wasn't going to stop any time soon. Karen was another permanude, Natasha thought. Her life would be a constant, maddening ordeal of bounces and blushes, teasing comments and penetrating snapshots, every moment promising some new humiliating surprise. Just like Natasha's.

Her fists clenched.

She really, really wanted to cover herself. She couldn't do it. She couldn't give in to the shame. That was exactly what Stark wanted. He wanted the proud Black Widow naked and squirming and squealing her little head off. She couldn't let him have the satisfaction. The problem was, she really wanted to squirm and squeal her little head off. It felt like the thing to do when you were standing on a public street, stark naked.

She wanted to run and hide. She wanted to duck inside and find a place where absolutely nobody could see her. People were looking at her. They were looking at her bare tits and her pussy and her beautiful naked ass, and they were liking what they saw. They were smiling at her. She could feel the heat rising to her face. She could feel every inch of her body tingling with shame. She felt small and helpless and **** and beaten. She felt naked.

Because she was. She was a naked girl. Stark had made her naked. Naked naked naked naked naked. She would have to stay naked until she got the whole job done.

And this was only the first five minutes.

Slowly, she began to walk towards the subway.

The subway was an ordeal. So was waiting in line at the airport. Of course the Avengers had a jet or two, but apparently the Hulk was using all of them at the moment. Life went on, after all. It wasn't as if the whole world revolved around her current, unfortunate situation. So she booked a commercial flight, and she went through security naked. Somehow, she still managed to set off the metal detector, and recieved a full patdown from three very enthusiastic TSA women, who finally gave her a slap on the ass and sent her on her way. She waited for half an hour in the boarding lounge, naked, and finally stepped onto the plane, still naked. She found an aisle seat, next to a very handsome young Frenchman who seemed to appreciate the fact that he was sitting next to a beautiful naked woman, and sat down.

"Drink?" said the stewardess.

"Ice water, please."

"You're one of those permanudes, aren't you? I heard about those. Must be pretty embarrassing."

"It's... fine."

"I'm glad I'm not nude. It happened to a work friend of mine and now she's the naked stewardess, serving drinks all day without any clothes on. She hates it. We all think it's hilarious. Plus, these really super embarrassing accidents have a way of happening to her? Like, she tripped into the lap of a dominatrix and wound up getting spanked in front of the whole plane?"

"Well, I'm sure that won't happen to eeeek!"

"Oh, no! I spilt the pitcher of ice-cold water all over you!"

"Damn it! I'll kill you, you idiot!"

"Ma'am, aggression against the flight staff is not acceptable. I'm afraid you'll have to spend the seven hours to Paris securely fastened into your seat."

"Wait, but..."

"On Stark Airlines we take employee security very seriously," said the stewardess, as red and gold restraints slid out of the arms of Natasha's chair and locked her wrists to the armrests. More restraints emerged from under the chair, clamping around her ankles and pinning her legs apart. "Our in-flight AI has diagnosed your situation and determined that, for your own psychological well-being, it's necessary to subject you to our passenger pacification procedure. Don't worry. It's for your own good."

"Hold on! I'm still sitting on ice cubes! I... mmf!" A red rubber gag attached to gilded leather straps had slid out from Nat's headrest and jammed itself into her mouth, pulling her head back against the seat. Metallic tentacles were emerging from hidden holes, tipped with rubbery and feathery tools that made Natasha wriggle and spit curses into her gag. The stewardess patted her hand.

"The procedure can elicit noise," she said. "That's to prevent you from disturbing the other passengers during your maximum-intensity seven-hour session of tickling, nipple pinching, electrostimulation, orgasm denial and miscellaneous torment. I'll be along regularly to apply icecubes to your nipples and vagina. Also, the whole thing will be streamed to the whole airplane via a special channel on our inflight entertainment system. Look!" She tapped the screen embedded in the seat in front of Nat, and it sprang to life. A split-screen display offered close-ups of her furiously blushing face and her blonde-thatched pussy. "Isn't technology wonderful?"

"Mmmffff!"

The stewardess gave her left nipple a pinch, as a whirling disc of feathers began to creep closer to Nat's labia. "Anyway, I've got work to do. Have a pleasant flight!"

"Mmfff! Mmff mmmmf mmmmmmfffffffff!"

So, what with one thing and another, it was in a filthy frame of mind that Nat finally arrived in her Paris hotel. She'd scurried off the crowded airplane, furious beyond belief and embarrassingly **** for an orgasm. She'd gone through French security, getting patted down again by half a dozen very amused Frenchwomen. She'd stood outside the airport for half an hour, trying to get a taxi, before finally giving up and catching the crowded shuttle bus into the city. She'd been dropped off in a strange neighbourhood and run halfway across town in a gentle, cold rain, trying to find her hotel, before working out it was only two blocks from where she'd started. She'd stood in line, again, to check in. She'd waited and waited while a mix-up with the reservation had been sorted out. She'd gotten her key, and climbed up a long flight of stairs. Now, finally, she was in her hotel room.

Alone. Still naked. Still with no prospect of clothes in the near future. But finally, blessedly, alone. For the first time in forever, nobody was looking at her. Nobody was teasing her. Nobody was laughing at her. She wasn't being humiliated.

She knew the mystical panties were somewhere in the city of Paris. She didn't know exactly where, but she had a few ideas about where to start. That could wait until morning, though. Right now she had something very, very important to do. And she could only do it when absolutely nobody was looking at her.

She had to masturbate.

It made her cringe even to admit it to herself. But that damned plane seat had kept her on edge for seven hours, using what she had to assume was some version of Tony's damnable vibration ray. She was worked up. She was, though she hated to say it, horny. She needed to cum.

So she was going to masturbate. In private. Alone. And then she was going to get some sleep.

She dropped down on top of the big fancy four-poster bed. She stretched out on the sheets. She let her hand slowly drift in between her legs.

The door slammed open.

"Oui? Maid service!"

"What the hell? Get out!"

"Ah, merci, madame? I have interrupted? You are, how you say, jacking it off?"

"Leave me alone! Get out, you stupid bitch!"

The maid clicked her tongue. Four metallc tentacles emerged from hidden holes, wrapping around Natasha's wrists and ankles and spread-eagling her across the silk sheets off the four-poster bed. Her mouth dropped open in astonishment as the maid advanced on her, brandishing a feather duster.

"At Stark Hotels Internationale we take, how you say, employee security very seriously."

"You let me go right now, you fucking... French harlot! Wait, who are they?"

Half a dozen other maids were walking into the room, all coquettishly beautiful, dressed in abbreviated maid outfits and carrying feather dusters. The first maid smiled.

"Unfortunately, we have no fancy machinery here, so we are **** to do this ourselves," she said. "Listen up, mademoiselles! You will not believe what I caught this naughty American doing. She was playing with herself, right here in our precious hotel room! And then she called me a stupid bitch!"

"Ooh la la!"

"Sacre bleu!"

"I'll call you worse than that if you don't let me go right now!"

"You know hotel policy, girls. Stark Hotels only hires lesbians for a reason. We must spend all night punishing her for being such a wicked little masturbator. First we tickle her, then we pinch her, and then we make her eat, how you say, the pussy. And we must take lots of pictures and put them on the Internet. But there is one thing we must not do."

"I can think of something you can do, you fucking..."

"She is the very horny girl, no? So we must not let her have the orgasm. That will teach her the lesson. You think you can do that, girls?"

"Oui!"

"No! No no noooooo..."

Natasha Romanoff squirmed in her bonds as the grinning French maids approached her, feather dusters at the ready, heat surging through her loins as her whole body tingled in **** anticipation of the orgasm she wasn't allowed to have. Heat surged into her blushing cheeks, too. It really had been a very long few days.