The Fall of Artemis the Amazon: Beautiful Bana Babes Brain-Blasted By Bootilicious Beats!

For all that their ever-present advertising and seeming lack of heavy manufacturing presence made Diva Industries seem like the sort of all-pervading corporate creeper that liked to disguise its facilities beneath innocuous facades and squirrel them away in underground factories, the truth was far less exciting. Diva Industries didn’t seem to have a large manufacturing base because, technically, they didn’t. For whatever reason, Veronica Cale preferred to offload the onus of actually making her company’s products onto various subsidiaries and associates. If pressed, she would categorically deny that it was to avoid lawsuits from the various physical and mental effects of exposure to said products’ various ingredients. If further pressed, she’d spray the questioner in the face with a perfume spritzer of one of those ingredients and do a little pressing of her own - namely, of the questioner’s now bimbo-blank, pillow-lipped face against the fat bulge that perpetually strained the front of her latex suit pants.

So it was that an armoured warrior now snuck through the corridors and catwalks of Admete Chemicals, the sharp clicks of her bronze ballet boots against metal grating lost amid the rattle and hum of machinery. Artemis, warrior of Bana-Mighdall, grunted softly with effort as she leapt upwards and vaulted up over the railing of one of the catwalks, watching a security guard wrapped in an electric blue skintight latex crop-top and booty shorts strut around the corner of the industrial lube mixer below her. And it was a strut, the woman’s hips popping and her booty rocking back and forth in time with a beat that only she could hear. Or maybe it was a beat that everyone could hear? There was something oddly familiar about the way the machinery’s various sounds blended together, after all.

Shaking her head and taking a deep breath of the hot, sticky-sweet air of the factory floor to steady herself, Artemis banished the distraction from her mind and crept forwards once more. It’d been difficult to follow the trail she’d picked up to this place, even with the help of her League associates, but she’d stick to that trail if it ki- kil- came deep inside her asshole!

Artemis scanned the wreckage of Akila’s apartment with long-practiced calm. After all, even without her own pride to uphold, her friend wouldn’t be served by her running off half-cocked and missing her kidnappers entirely. And she had been kidnapped, that much was clear. The walls were tattered and torn, every appliance smashed and wires dangling from the ceiling like the room’s electronics had come to life and attacked its occupant. Lube stains and puddles were present everywhere, the thick scent of Akila’s cum wafting from every surface.

The lube was the key, definitely. Akila was a consummate StarrWare brand loyalist, so the presence of any other brand would point her in the right direction - at least the right direction to start her search. Running her hand through the large puddle sitting on the sodden remains of Akila’s bed, Artemis freed her cock and began to stroke. The first prickling touch of her nails send a familiar throb of pleasure shooting up her spine, instantly raising herself to full mast as her slender hand wrapped around her shaft and began to pump. The sensation was utterly unlike any of the oils or jellies Akila favoured, paradoxically growing slicker and smoother the faster and harder she pumped.

Artemis gasped and bucked her hips against her pumping hand, sighing happily as she blasted ropes of cum onto the crime scene. She’d only felt like this once before - at a trade show she’d been dragged to by Diana of Themyscira, where she’d taken advantage of a complimentary jack-off at the hands of a Diva Industries rep showing off their new lube. Machine, they’d called it, supposed to last for an entire day of relentless pounding with only a single handful. Akila had ignored it, and the exorbitant price that Diva Industries used to make up for even a single tub’s longevity narrowed her list of possible suspects considerably.

Snapping out of the memory - and barely managing to resist the phantom sensation of a handful of Machine slathered on her now-aching cock - Artemis eyed the door in front of her carefully. It didn’t seem to be warded or otherwise sealed, the only thing marking it out from the dozen other closet doors she’d passed was the small plaque that adorned it. Project Anthemusa Observation Room. Carefully, she twisted the door handle and slipped inside. The room itself was spartan; a desk and a pair of chairs facing the transparent side of a large one-way mirror, while a fluorescent strip buzzed on the ceiling. Through that one-way mirror, though…

Warm light filled a small studio, the walls panelled in floor-to-ceiling mirrors and the floor made of light, varnished wood. A heavy, retro-futuristic boombox sat in one corner, adorned with strange blinking lights and sparking tesla coils as two clusters of speakers visibly pulsed out a beat that could just barely be heard through whatever the studio was soundproofed with. And, in the middle of the room, still as a statue, was Akila. Skintight pink latex clung to her flesh, her fat nipples clearly visible through the skimpy bandeau that stretched across her modest chest and her swollen cameltoe swallowing the crotch of her booty shorts as easily as her juicy bubble butt swallowed their seat. Glossy faux-leather boots encased her legs up to the knee, their platform soles lifting her a good two inches off of the ground and their sharp heels lifting her still further.

Artemis' cock throbbed beneath her bronze-plated skirt at the sight of her friend and sometimes-lover with her knees bent, her back arched and her booty thrust out like she was one of the trashy commercial girls who’d been popping up on street corners all over the country. Except this one didn’t have a corporate slogan or logo emblazoned across her pants, just the mouth-watering sight of two gorgeous globes of dark meat so powerful that a full two thirds of each were on display. Akali’s hands were poised above her own ASS and, as Artemis watched helplessly, slammed down to clap her own cheeks as the bass dropped like a bomb. Instantly, the North African Amazon was a riot of motion, muscular legs twitching and hands roaming her upper body as her booty bounced.

Artemis groaned helplessly at the sight of Akila turned into this… this… to the beat of the jukebox, pressing her palms against the vibrating window and calling her friend's name desperately. But it was no use; whatever sound managed to leak past the window was swallowed up in the sound coming from the jukebox. She had to break in there somehow and rescue her - but how? If this studio was built to prevent an Amazon's escape, then trying to break down the walls or even shatter the window would be futile. Artemis nibbled nervously at her bottom lip, still watching Akila's ASS bounce and clap to the beat. It was such a powerful beat, too - one that its way, little by little, past the studio's soundproofing as it pounded and pounded.

The shaking of Akila's ASS redoubled as she planted her hands on her knees and dropped into a deep, spread-legged squat. The fingers of Artemis' left hand began to toy with her scarlet ponytail as it laid forward over her shoulder, fiddling with it in a most un-Amazon manner as the fingertips of her right hand traced the edge of the bronze half-cups that - barely - contained her breasts. The music must be the key, she decided, as her fingertips ghosted down over her iron-hard abs. Every inch of her body glistened with a thin sheen of perspiration and her breasts heaved with every gasping breath. She couldn't help it; something in the faint traces of the beat and the unspeakably erotic sight of Akila, twerking like a born club-bitch, made her feel like she'd been fucking and fighting for days.

"Ah... Finally caught you."

Artemis spun around with a girlish gasp of shock. Backlit against the open door of the observation room was a dark figure, broad-hipped and broad-chested. It looked to the Amazon's eyes like she was wearing some sort of headdress of tangled pipes and cables, but the inability to perceive this intruder as anything more than a flat black silhouette made it impossible to be sure. "You..." Artemis trailed off before rallying again. "What have you done to her?"

The figure laughed, a low, smoky noise like the purr of a biker chick's ride. "Me? I just built a jukebox," she replied, still chuckling, "and turned it on. It seems I turned your friend on, too; once she caught an earful of my beats, she just couldn't help herself. I just watched her start to shake and shimmy, to bump and grind... I watched her throw that ASS back like she was born for it. I watched it get a little bigger - a little more bootilicious - with every clap of those chocolate cheeks, until she was dragging more junk than a Blüdhaven scrapyard. I watched her twerk away her cares, her willpower. I watched her become a vessel for the beat - watched her become Bootyslave..."

"You think you've beaten her? She's stronger than any cursed club-mix cassette! I'll-!"

"Do nothing," the figure suddenly snarled, faint revving noises underlaying the words. "Save her? You can't even save yourself!"

"Wha-?" Artemis had an instant to process the steady swinging of her hips from left to right as her right hand gripped the hem of her swishing skirt and her left continued to twirl the tip of her ponytail like an anxious sorority pledge. Then, a _____ blasted out of the speakers placed all around the room. "G- Guh! Uuuuuuuuunnnnhh..." The pulse of _____ seemed to flip a switch in her brain, rolling her eyes back in her head as they fluttered shut and dropping her like a sack of rocks. The shadow stepped forward smoothly and caught her, hoisting her limp form over one shoulder in a single smooth motion. Flipping up the femme's skirt, the figure grabbed a handful of her firm, muscular rear and gave it a rough squeeze.

"Poor baby," she sing-songed, "a meathead without any meat on her booty! Don't worry, though - I've got a special tonal treatment, just for you."

And, as she let the door swing closed behind her and left an empty room watching Akila drop down into booty-popping splits, a metronome clicked away on the desk...