More naked nightmares, please

Sally Peters, 1955, struggled helplessly against her bonds as the gleaming chrome machine approached the table, vacuum tubes pulsing inside the translucent dome of its head. "Tremble... capitalist... scum," it intoned, computerised voice blaring as the red rubber probe on the end of its manipulator arm was inflated to its full length, bulbous head glistening with strange extra-terrestrial oils. "Your... pussy... belongs... to... the... people."

She had been captured by robots. And not just any robots. Communist robots! And not just any Communist robots. COMMUNIST SEX ROBOTS, designed in the labs of Leningrad to seduce and subvert pretty blonde housewives from Dayton, Ohio, just like her! This was so much worse than her ordinary, humdrum existence! "I'll never surrender to you," she protested, trying and failing to close her shackled legs as the firm and gleaming crimson cock crept mercilessly towards her exposed sex. "I'm a proud American citizen, and I'll always be... OHHH!"

"You... like... it."

"No I don't! I... OH! AHH! MMM!"

Suddenly, the concrete wall of the secret lab in the abandoned warehouse burst open, and Superman walked in. But instead of rescuing Sally Peters, he stood with his arms folded, shaking his head.

"There must be some mistake," he said, watching Sally gasp and wriggle as the remorseless engine of Red subversion calmly went to work between her thighs. "I came here to rescue a decent, respectable woman, not some slutty little Commie pervert with a thing for mechanical sex. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Sally."

"NO! LET ME GO!"

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to tell your husband about this."