Victimize Vixen's Visage

A hysterical laugh bubbled up his throat. He clamped a hand over his mouth, tasting rainwater and blood. He had a slow relization of what is happening, as he stares at the hero, seeing rain fall off her tight cheap suit, hitting the ground below. You slowly walk up to her to test your hypotheis.

Simon's pulse hammered as he stepped forward, his wet sneakers splashing against the pavement. Vigilante Vixen stood motionless in the downpour, her cheap cape plastered to her thighs, the baton dangling from her limp grip. The cops were muttering by their squad cars, rubbing their temples like men trying to recall a dream.

He reached out slowly, half-expecting his fingers to pass through her. But no—his hand connected with the damp spandex covering her hip, the material stretched thin over the curve of her ass. Simon exhaled sharply. She didn't twitch. Didn't react at all.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed, sliding his palm upward to squeeze her waist. The D-lister's costume had visible stitching under his fingers, the kind that came from Halloween store clearance racks. Up close, he could see the makeup running beneath her mask from the rain.

"—should file a report anyway," one cop was saying, scratching his stubble as rainwater dripped from his cap.

Vigilante Vixen nodded absently. Simon pinched her side experimentally. Nothing. He dragged his thumb along the seam where her belt dug into her waist. Still nothing.

"Yeah," she agreed tonelessly, "report."

Simon's pulse thundered in his ears louder than the rain. He traced the neckline of her leotard where it clung to her collarbones, then—heart hammering—cupped her left breast. "Mhhh what do you have under here? You say as you slowly get a painful tightness in your pants. The material was cold and wet. Her nipple stiffened under his palm from the chill, not his touch.

"—check the perimeter?" the other officer was asking, kicking a soda can.

Simon squeezed experimentally. Vigilante Vixen's breath hitched slightly, but her gaze remained fixed on the middle distance as she answered: "Standard procedure."

Her breast was heavier than he'd imagined, the cheap spandex doing nothing to disguise the softness beneath. He kneaded it like dough, watching rainwater trickle between his fingers. When he tweaked her nipple through the fabric, she blinked rapidly—but only because a raindrop had landed on her eyelash.

The rain tapered off just as the shorter cop nudged his partner. "Hey, look at this," he snorted, pointing at Vigilante Vixen's peeling chest emblem. "Didn't know they made superheroes at the Dollar Store." His partner barked out a laugh while Simon's fingers curled around the edge of her mask.

"Fuck off, I'm licensed!" Vixen snapped—right as Simon peeled the soaked fabric upward. Her protest morphed into a confused gasp when cool air hit her face, but she kept arguing with the cops as if nothing had happened. "I've got a Level 3 vigilante permit pinned to my—hey!"

Simon tossed the mask into a puddle and started on her belt. The cops weren't even looking at him. They were too busy doubling over at the reveal of her ordinary, makeup-streaked face. "Christ, Karen?" The taller cop wheezed. "You're the one who keeps filing noise complaints at the precinct?"

Vixen—Karen—flushed scarlet. "It's Vigilante Vixen when I'm on duty, Richards!" She planted her hands on her hips just as Simon popped the clasp of her utility belt. It slid down her legs with a wet splat before she even registered its absence.

The cops howled with laughter. "Oh shit, Karen's got a secret life!" the shorter officer wheezed, slapping his thigh. Simon's fingers worked at the hidden zipper running down Vigilante Vixen's spine, her damp spandex peeling away like a banana skin.

"Of all the goddamn..." Cop #2 wiped tears from his eyes. "We been getting prank calls about a vigilante in Sector 12 for months!"

Simon tugged the costume downward, revealing freckled shoulders, a sports bra, and the unmistakable tan lines of someone who'd worn the same ill-fitting mask for years. Karen—Vixen—whatever—was still mid-rant about neighborhood watch protocols when her boots squelched against the pavement.

"Richards, I swear to God—hey!" Her head jerked sideways as Simon yanked the suit past her hips. The cops lost it completely. One bent double, gasping, "She's wearing Spanx under it! Fucking Spanx!"

Simon's fingers hooked into the waistband of her compression shorts. The material peeled away with a wet sound, exposing pale thighs and plain cotton panties printed with tiny cartoon police badges.

"Standard...procedure..." Karen repeated faintly, goosebumps rising as rainwater trickled down her bare legs. She shivered, arms still raised in mid-gesture, oblivious to the fact Simon now had her leotard pooled around her ankles. The absurdity hit Simon like a truck—this woman was standing in her underwear arguing about municipal bylaws while he stripped her in broad daylight.

Simon's breath hitched as he pressed his erection against Karen's bare thigh. The rain had tapered to a drizzle, leaving the alleyway slick with reflections of blue and red police lights. He gripped her hips, feeling the warmth of her skin through damp cotton panties. "Don't pay attention to this," he yells to everyone with glee.

Karen kept arguing with Officer Richards about noise ordinance violations while Simon pushed her panties aside with his thumb. Her legs parted slightly—just enough for him to slide his cock between her thighs without her noticing. She didn't even pause mid-sentence when he entered her. "—and another thing, Richards, if you'd actually read the vigilante code of conduct—oh!" Her voice hitched as Simon bottomed out inside her, her body reacting instinctively even as her mind refused to register the intrusion.

The cops were too busy wiping laughter-induced tears to notice Simon thrusting into their neighborhood nuisance. "Christ, Karen," Richards wheezed, holstering his gun, "just go home and put on some pants." They turned their backs, walking toward their squad car while Karen's hips jerked in time with Simon's movements. Her arms remained crossed indignantly over her sports bra, her mouth still running: "This is exactly why civilian oversight committees exist—nngh—because incompetent officers like you—ah!—fail to—oh god—take protocol seriously—"

Simon gripped her waist harder, fucking her with sharp, shallow thrusts that made her toes curl in her discarded boots. Her words dissolved into stuttered syllables, her body responding even as her brain insisted nothing was happening. The squad car doors slammed shut. The engine roared to life. Karen came against Simon's cock with a shudder that racked her entire frame, her knees buckling as she gasped about "procedural irregularities."

Simon watched the taillights disappear around the corner before pulling out with a wet pop. Karen swayed on her feet, blinking down at her bare legs and pooled costume. "The hell...?" She touched her damp thighs, then spun toward Simon—only to look right through him. "Must've... tripped..." she mumbled, gathering her suit with mechanical movements.

Her discarded mask floated in a puddle nearby, its eyeholes staring blankly at the sky. Simon wiped himself clean with her discarded cape, watching Karen struggle back into her damp costume like a drunkard dressing after blacking out. The zipper kept catching on her sports bra. "Goddamn rain," she slurred, wobbling on one leg.

Simon crouched to retrieve the fallen briefcase. The remaining vials glowed faintly through cracked leather. His reflection warped in their curved glass—eyes too bright, mouth twisted in a grin that didn't feel like his own.

Karen finally managed to zip up her suit, though it was inside-out and backward. She staggered toward the the end of the alley and walked away. You start walking back to your appartment, and start to plan, immedeitely relizing your life won't be the same again.