Chapter 1: Panty Toss of Submission
The cold, rough stone of the dungeon steps bit into the bare soles of their feet. Chains rattled, a harsh metallic counterpoint to the soft, shuffling footsteps of the three young women being led downward. Their arms were wrenched behind their backs, bound tightly by cold iron links.
Barbara Gordon, her red hair a messy cascade over her shoulders, winced as she took another step. Her body, a testament to years of gymnastic training and vigilantism, was toned and agile, with lightly defined muscles tracing her arms and a smooth, flat stomach. Now, it was displayed for their captors, covered only by a pair of flimsy pink lace panties that did little to conceal the curve of her hips or the bounce of her breasts with each downward step.
“Well,” Dinah Lance said, her voice tight. Her platinum blonde hair was a stark beacon in the gloom. Her own figure was slender and powerfully toned, every muscle defined from her rigorous combat training. The plain white cotton of her panties was a modest, almost laughable contrast to the amazing swell of her ass and the perfect shape of her tits. “This mission is going just great. Really top-notch.”
Helena Bertinelli, bringing up the rear, snorted. Her long, dark hair stuck to her damp neck. Her body was that of a born athlete—powerful legs, a tightly toned core, and an ass that wouldn’t quit, all barely contained by a pair of simple black, high-cut panties. “You think? I was just telling myself how much I enjoyed the full-body pat-down. Very thorough.”
A gruff voice from behind them growled. “Shut up and keep moving.”
Barbara stumbled, the chain between her ankles nearly tripping her. “Their ‘security check’ was a bit more hands-on than I anticipated.” She tried to keep her voice steady, but a tremor of humiliation ran through it. The memory of rough, calloused hands moving past her hair, groping her breasts with clinical detachment, and the invasive, shocking push of fingers into her pussy made her skin crawl.
“Tell me about it,” Dinah muttered, her jaw clenched. “I think one of them actually checked my tonsils. I’ve never felt so… inventoried.”
They reached the bottom of the stairs, the dank air of the dungeon filling their lungs. It smelled of mildew, dust, and something else, something coppery and old. A single, flickering light bulb swung from a wire overhead, casting long, dancing shadows.
“How the hell did we even get here?” Helena asked, her dark eyes scanning the barren, stone-walled chamber. “One minute we’re breaching the mainframe, the next we’re waking up in a locker room with goons telling us to ‘strip for processing’.”
“They must have used a concentrated aerosol neurotoxin,” Barbara reasoned, her mind, as always, trying to piece it together. “Fast-acting. We never stood a chance.”
A heavy door creaked open to their left. Two of the guards shoved Helena forward. “You’re first, sweetheart. The boss wants a word.”
Helena shot a look back at her friends, a smoldering fire in her eyes. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”
The door slammed shut, leaving Barbara and Dinah alone in the dim chamber. The silence was heavy, broken only by the drip of water somewhere and the frantic beating of their own hearts. They strained to listen.
At first, it was just muffled voices. Helena’s, sharp and defiant. A man’s, low and calm.
“...think you’re in any position…?” they heard the man say.
Helena’s retort was too muffled to make out.
Then, the argumentative tone faded. The voices dropped to a murmur, then nothing. An unnerving silence stretched for a full minute.
Barbara and Dinah exchanged a worried glance. This was worse than shouting.
Then, a new sound began. A soft, almost imperceptible moan. It was followed by the rhythmic, protesting creak of old springs. A mattress.
Another moan, slightly louder this time. Unmistakably Helena’s.
“What are they doing to her?” Dinah whispered, her face pale.
Barbara couldn’t answer. The creaking of the mattress established a slow, deliberate rhythm. The soft moans continued, punctuating the squeaking springs. They weren't cries of pain. They were something else entirely, something that made Barbara’s stomach twist into a cold knot.
The noises built, the rhythm becoming faster, more urgent. The moans grew louder, losing their softness, taking on a breathless, frantic quality.
Then, a flutter of black fabric sailed out from under the door of the interrogation room. It landed on the cold stone floor between them.
Helena’s black, high-cut panties.
A stunned silence fell between the two women. The sounds from the other room now painted a horrifically clear picture. The creaking was frantic now, a relentless, pounding tempo. And cutting through it, sharp and wet and brutal, was another sound.
Slap.
A pause, then another.
Slap. Slap.
Then it built, a brutal, rhythmic percussion against the backdrop of Helena’s escalating cries.
Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap.
Slap. Slap.
The sound was wet and meaty, each impact followed by a sharp, guttural cry from Helena that was nothing like her. It was a sound of being taken apart.
Barbara felt her knees go weak. The pink lace of her own panties felt suddenly like a transparent film, offering no protection, only highlighting what was about to be taken.
Dinah let out a shaky breath, her knuckles white where she clenched her bound hands. She leaned her head back against the cold stone wall, a grim, humorless smile twisting her lips. "Doesn't sound like she has the upper hand in the interrogation," Black Canary joked, her voice hollow.
The joke landed like a lead weight in the thick air. Barbara couldn't even muster a response. Her eyes were fixed on the black scrap of fabric on the floor, a testament to how thoroughly their power had been stripped away.
The sounds from the other room reached a fever pitch. The slapping became a relentless, brutal drumbeat. Helena’s cries fractured into raw, open-mouthed screams that were half pain, half something else she was being forced to feel. Then, a final, guttural roar from a man, and a simultaneous, shuddering wail from Helena that seemed to suck all the air out of the dungeon.
Silence.
A heavy, ringing silence broken only by ragged, exhausted breathing.
The door creaked open. The same two guards emerged, adjusting their clothing. One of them wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Helena was nowhere to be seen.
The guard’s eyes, cold and appraising, swept over Dinah. "You. Blondie. You're up."
He grabbed Dinah by the chain between her wrists and yanked her forward. She stumbled, but caught her balance, throwing a last, defiant look at Barbara. "Don't do anything stupid, Babs," she murmured.
Then the door slammed shut, and Barbara was alone.
The silence in the main chamber was now absolute, making the sounds from the interrogation room unbearably clear. She heard the low murmur of a male voice, then Dinah’s, sharp and clear. "Go to hell."
A slap, crisp and hard. A gasp.
Then, the sound of fabric tearing.
Barbara squeezed her eyes shut, but it only made the audio more vivid. She heard a wet, sucking sound, then Dinah’s choked-off gasp. "Get your… fucking mouth… off me…"
The man grunted. "Sing for me, canary."
The rhythmic creaking started again, slower this time, more deliberate. Dinah’s protests became fragmented, broken by sharp, involuntary intakes of air. A low moan escaped, and she cursed, as if angry at her own body’s betrayal. "Don't… you… fucking dare…" she panted, her voice strained.
The pace quickened. The creaking became a frantic, pounding rhythm. Dinah’s resistance crumbled into a series of helpless, breathy cries. "Oh god… oh fuck…" The words were barely audible, a mantra of surrender forced from her lips.
Barbara heard the man’s gruff voice. "That's it. Take it. Take all of it."
A final, broken wail from Dinah was followed by a deep, satisfied groan from the man. The creaking stopped.
Barbara stood frozen in the center of the room, her body trembling uncontrollably. She was alone. The guard would be back for her soon. Her eyes dropped to the floor, to the two discarded pairs of panties—one black, one now a torn scrap of white cotton.
She was next.
The door swung open again, cutting through the heavy silence. The same two guards stood there, their expressions bored, their clothes slightly disheveled. The one who had wiped his mouth earlier gestured with his chin.
“Your turn, Red.”
He didn’t wait for her to move. He just grabbed the chain between her wrists and pulled, forcing her to stumble forward into the interrogation room. The door slammed shut behind her, the bolt sliding home with a final, metallic thud.
The room was smaller than she’d imagined, and stank of sweat, sex, and cheap cigars. A single, bare bulb hung from the ceiling, illuminating a stained mattress in the center of the floor. Without ceremony, the guard shoved her hard. She fell onto the lumpy, damp surface, the chains digging into her back and the underside of her thighs.
The second guard, a heavier man with a thick beard, stood over her. “Where’s the backup transmitter? Who were you signaling?”
Barbara pressed her lips together, her heart hammering against her ribs. She fixed her gaze on a water stain on the ceiling, trying to retreat into the calm, analytical part of her mind. She was Batgirl. She could withstand this.
The bearded man sighed, as if she’d just wasted his time. He nodded to his partner.
The first guard knelt beside the mattress, his knee pressing into her thigh. His calloused hand, still damp with sweat, slid up her smooth stomach. She flinched, her muscles tightening. He didn’t stop. His fingers hooked into the delicate pink lace of her panties.
“Let’s try again,” the bearded one said, his voice a low rumble. “The transmission frequency.”
She stayed silent, squeezing her eyes shut. She could do this. She could.
Then the kneeling guard’s finger pushed past the lace, past her curls, and found her entrance. He didn’t hesitate. He pushed one thick, rough finger inside her.
Barbara gasped, her back arching off the mattress. It was a violation so sudden and crude it short-circuited her brain.
At the same time, the bearded man leaned over, his wet thumb finding her nipple. He circled it slowly, the pad of his thumb rough against the sensitive peak, making it harden traitorously against her will.
“The frequency,” he repeated, his breath hot on her ear.
She shook her head, a strangled sound catching in her throat. The guard between her legs worked his finger in and out, a slow, brutal rhythm. It was dry and painful at first, a burning friction, but her body, betraying her completely, began to respond. A treacherous warmth spread through her lower belly. A slickness she hated herself for gathered around his invading finger.
He added a second finger, stretching her, the sound obscenely wet now. Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk.
“Oh god,” she whimpered. It wasn’t a plea. It was a surrender.
The thumb on her nipple pinched, hard. The fingers inside her curled, finding a spot that made her see white behind her eyelids. A raw, ragged moan was torn from her lips. Her carefully constructed walls crumbled into dust. The fight left her body in a rush, replaced by a shameful, mounting pressure.
“The frequency!” the bearded man barked.
“1-7-3-4-0!” she cried out, the numbers tumbling from her lips in a desperate, breathless rush. “It was 173.40! Now please, stop!”
The fingers inside her stilled. The thumb left her nipple. For a moment, there was only the sound of her own ragged panting and the pounding of blood in her ears.
The bearded man straightened up, a satisfied smirk on his face. He nodded to his partner.
The kneeling guard slowly withdrew his slick fingers from her. He looked down at her, at her flushed skin and heaving chest, at the complete lack of resistance in her limbs. He hooked his fingers back into the waistband of her pink lace panties.
He hooked his fingers back into the waistband of her pink lace panties.
A jolt of pure, undiluted adrenaline screamed through Barbara’s veins. This was it. The final threshold. The suit, the belt, the boots—all of it was just prelude. This flimsy scrap of lace was the last artifact of Barbara Gordon, of Batgirl, of her. If it came off, the world would flip irreversibly on its axis. Her hands, acting on a impulse far older than reason, flew down and grabbed the fabric, pulling it back up against the guard’s tug.
“No,” she gasped, the word tearing from her throat. “Not those. Not my panties.”
The guard with the beard chuckled, a low, grating sound. “The utility belt’s gone. The cute little costume’s gone. You think this bit of thread is gonna save you?” He gave another firm tug.
The delicate lace stretched, digging into her hips as her own grip fought his. Each tug from the man won a few millimeters, the waistband sliding inexorably downward, revealing the pale, smooth skin of her lower abdomen, the delicate dip of her navel. From the other room, the rhythmic, brutal slapping sound continued, punctuated by Huntress’s strained cries, a horrifying soundtrack to her own undoing.
“Almost there, Red,” the kneeling guard grunted, his breath hot on her thigh. He managed to slide the panties down another inch, and a few dark, soft sprouts of her shaven pubic hair came into view.
Panic seized her. As soon as the lace cleared the neat triangle of hair, she ripped her hands from the fabric and clamped them tightly over her mound, a desperate, futile barrier. The panties, turned inside out now, slid down her thighs, the silky inner lining—the part designed to protect her most intimate skin—now a useless flag of surrender.
“Tough girl,” the bearded guard mocked. She locked her knees together, a last-ditch attempt to keep the garment from being fully removed, but the man just snorted and gave a hard, final yank. The panties slipped over her knees, down her calves, and off her feet.
He held them up, the tiny pink lace seeming absurd in his rough, calloused hand. He wagged them back and forth in front of her face. “Look at that. Nothing but a tease. Just like you.”
She stared, mesmerized by the humiliation of it, at the garment that had been her last defense. Her entire world had narrowed to this stained mattress, to the sounds of her friends being broken in the adjacent rooms. They had trained for everything—torture, waterboarding, sensory deprivation. They had never, ever considered this. They thought they had prepared for every contingency, but this brutish, primal reduction had never been on the syllabus.
The kneeling guard tossed the panties aside and leaned forward, his hard, thick cock poking insistently at the backs of her hands, which were still pressed tightly against her pussy. The pressure was demanding, a blunt announcement of what was to come. Barbara’s chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths, her tits flattening against her ribcage as she lay on her back, utterly exposed. Her bare feet were flat on the mattress, her knees forced apart by the man who now leaned forward between them, his body crowding out the dim light, his cock still nudging her hands.
"Move 'em," he grunted, his voice a low rumble of impatience.
She shook her head, a tiny, frantic movement. The slap-slap-slap from the other room seemed to be counting down the seconds she had left.
He leaned closer, his face inches from hers. He didn't smell like cheap cologne or cigars like the other one; he smelled like sweat and plain soap. It was somehow more intimate, more terrifying. "You can move 'em, or I'll move 'em for you. Your choice. Makes no difference to me."
Tears of sheer frustration and helplessness welled in her eyes. Her mind raced, searching for a leverage point, a weakness, anything. There was nothing. Just the cold stone, the creaking mattress, and the immense, inevitable weight of the man between her legs.
His hand, the one that had been on her knee, moved up her inner thigh, rough and possessive. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist. His grip was like iron. Slowly, applying a pressure that made the bones in her wrist ache, he began to pull her hand away from her body.
She fought him, every muscle in her arm straining, but it was useless. Her hand, slick with her own sweat, slid across her skin, uncovering the vulnerable, soft flesh beneath. A low groan escaped her lips as the cool air hit her exposed skin.
"There we go," he murmured, his voice dripping with a grotesque satisfaction. He repeated the process with her other wrist, peeling her defiance away layer by layer until both her hands were pinned by her sides, held in his vicelike grip.
She was completely open to him now. Her chest heaved, her heart hammering a frantic tattoo against her ribs. She stared up at the flickering bulb, trying to disconnect, to go somewhere else inside her head.
But then she felt the blunt, insistent head of his cock pressing against her entrance. It was a reality too visceral to ignore. It was too dry, too big. She braced for a tearing, blinding pain.
"Please," she whispered, the word a broken thing. "Don't."
He ignored her, adjusting his angle, the pressure intensifying. He was pushing, trying to force his way in. A sharp, burning stretch made her cry out.
Then, he spat. A thick, warm glob landed directly on her cleft, trickling down between her labia. The casual vulgarity of the act shocked her more than the pain. Before she could even process it, he used the moisture to slick himself, rubbing the head of his cock up and down her slit, coating himself in the spit and her own traitorous wetness.
"This'll help," he grunted, as if offering a kindness.
Then he pushed again. This time, the wetness allowed the thick head to pop past her tight ring of muscle. She gasped, a sharp, involuntary intake of breath. The feeling of being stretched, of being filled so abruptly, was overwhelming. He didn't stop. He shoved forward, burying himself inside her in one long, steady, brutal thrust.
A scream caught in Barbara's throat, coming out as a choked, guttural sound. The fullness was absolute, a burning, aching pressure that consumed her entire lower body. He was deep, so deep, his hips pressed flush against her thighs.
He held there for a moment, letting her feel every inch of him, letting the reality of the violation sink in. Then, he withdrew almost completely, the drag of his flesh against her sensitized inner walls making her whimper. He slammed back in.
And then he set a rhythm. It was not slow or exploratory. It was a relentless, punishing pace. The moist, slapping sound of their bodies meeting filled the small room, a grotesque echo of the noises from next door. Each thrust drove the air from her lungs, each impact jolted her body up the mattress.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but the darkness behind her lids was filled with the image of her pink panties being waved in her face. She turned her head to the side, hoping to find some anchor in the cold stone of the wall, but all she could hear was Huntress's exhausted moans and the steady, brutal slap-slap-slap that was now her own.