Chapter 1: Panties and Polaroids
The warehouse air was thick with the smell of damp soil and rotting vegetation. Batgirl’s hands, bound tightly behind her back with coarse vines that bit into her wrists, were the least of her problems. She’d been careless, rushing headlong into what was obviously a trap—a false alarm about hostages that led her straight into a net of Ivy’s thorny creepers. Now, standing in the center of the grotesque green cathedral, the reality of her capture settled in like a cold weight in her gut.
Poison Ivy watched her, a smirk playing on her emerald lips. “The famous Batgirl. Not so untouchable now, are we? Strip her.”
The command was simple, icy. Two henchmen stepped forward. One, a heavy-set man with a shaved head and a scar across his chin—Marcus—grabbed the yellow buckle of her utility belt and yanked it open. The gear clattered to the concrete floor. His hands were rough as he found the hidden zipper at the back of her cowl and tugged it down.
“Do it yourself,” Ivy purred, stepping closer. Her auburn hair seemed to move with a life of its own. “I want to see the mighty vigilante undress herself. Everything off. We need to be sure you’re not carrying any… surprises.”
A static crackle, almost imperceptible, sounded in Batgirl’s ear. Batman’s voice, low and urgent, whispered through the crushed communicator lodged there. “Barb. Signal is faint. Hold on. I’m triangulating. I’m coming.”
Hope, thin and desperate, flickered inside her. She had one card left to play.
With numb fingers, she reached for the zipper at the front of her suit. The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet. She peeled the damp, purple spandex from her shoulders, down her torso, feeling every eye in the room like a physical touch. Her athletic physique, usually a source of strength and pride, was now just exposed flesh. The suit pooled at her waist. She hesitated for only a second before pushing it down over her hips, letting it fall to her ankles. She stepped out of it, kicking the bundle of fabric aside with a bare foot. The air was cool on her skin.
Now she stood in only a simple pair of pink cotton panties. Her breasts, full and firm with peaked nipples, were completely bare. She crossed her arms over her chest, not in modesty, but in a futile attempt to shield herself from their leering gazes.
“Arms down,” Ivy said, her voice like silk over steel. “Let them look. Marcus, check the costume. Every seam.”
Marcus knelt, picking up the discarded suit with a mocking reverence. He ran his thick fingers over every inch, inside the boots, along the lining of the cape.
“Nothing in the cloth, Doc,” he grumbled, but his eyes never left Batgirl’s body.
“Of course not,” Ivy said. “She’s smarter than that. The body is the best hiding place. It’s time for the body search.” She circled Batgirl, a predator assessing prey. “Lift your breasts.”
Batgirl’s jaw tightened. “Ivy, this is—”
“Lift them.” The purr was gone, replaced by a sharp, venomous command.
Swallowing hard, Batgirl uncrossed her arms. She cupped her own breasts, the weight of them familiar yet suddenly alien in this context, and lifted them. The action pulled the skin taut, revealing the soft undersides. Her nipples hardened further in the chill air.
Ivy leaned close, her cool breath on Batgirl’s skin. “See? Nothing concealed underneath. No tiny blades, no data chips. Just flesh and blood. So very human.” She straightened up. “Now turn around.”
Batgirl turned, facing the wall of writhing, bioluminescent moss. Her back was to them, her pink panties the last scrap of dignity.
“Those too. Off,” Ivy commanded. “Then squat. Cough. And lean forward.”
“You can’t be serious,” Batgirl whispered, her voice hoarse.
A vine snaked out from the floor, wrapping around her ankle and tightening warningly. “I am never not serious. Do it.”
Her fingers trembled as she hooked them into the waistband of her panties. She pushed them down over her hips, down her thighs, past her knees. She stepped out of them, leaving them on the dirty floor. Completely naked now, she bent her knees, lowering into a deep squat. The position was agonizingly vulnerable. She coughed, as instructed.
And something small, metallic, and slick slid out from inside her and clicked onto the concrete between her feet.
Her heart stopped.
“I’m two minutes out, Barb. Almost there.” Batman’s voice was a tense promise in her ear.
Ivy’s heel, a sharp stiletto crafted from polished bark, came down on the tracker with a decisive crunch. The tiny light on its side died instantly. “Naughty bird,” Ivy murmured. “Hiding toys in your little nest. Did you think we wouldn’t check?”
Marcus chuckled, scooping up the discarded pink panties. He held them up, sniffing them theatrically before tossing them onto the pile with her costume. His eyes were fixed on her exposed rear, on the intimate view her squatting position afforded.
“Now,” Ivy said, her business-like tone returning. “We document. Birthmarks, scars, moles… and other identifying areas. For our files, and for… leverage.”
A henchman produced an old Polaroid camera. The flash exploded in the dim space, once, twice. Batgirl flinched each time, knowing exactly what was being captured. The first photo, she knew, would show her from behind, bent over, her most private parts exposed—the neat thatch of auburn hair, the intimate lips glistening with a traitorous mixture of fear and involuntary arousal from the humiliating cough. The second would be of her front, her full, rounded breasts with their dark pink areolas now permanently etched onto instant film.
“Upload those,” Ivy said to another henchman tapping on a tablet. “A little preview for the Gotham underworld. Let them see the Bat’s little bird plucked.” The original photos, still developing, were slid into a manila envelope. Marcus tossed her panties in after them. Ivy labeled the envelope in elegant script: ‘RANSOM’.
“Barb, report. What is happening?” Batman’s voice was edged with a worry he rarely showed.
She couldn’t answer. She could only breathe, trying to detach her mind from what was happening to her body.
“The medical examination is next,” Ivy announced. “Standard procedure. We must ensure our guest is in… working order. Marcus. Begin with the breast exam. Be thorough.”
The heavy-set man stepped forward, licking his lips. His hands, grease-stained and calloused, came up. He cupped her left breast roughly, his palm slapping against the soft flesh. He began to knead in a slow, circular pattern, his fingers probing and compressing deeply, searching for non-existent lumps. He squeezed the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pulling slightly. Batgirl gasped, humiliation burning hotter than any pain. He repeated the process on her right breast, his touch leaving red marks on her pale skin.
“No abnormalities,” Marcus grunted, his breath coming quicker.
“Good,” Ivy said. “Now the pelvic exam.”
A metal table was wheeled forward. Ivy gestured. “On your back. Legs in the stirrups.”
Batgirl’s pleas died in her throat. Resistance was futile and would only make it worse. She lay back on the cold metal, the ceiling of dripping moss spinning above her. She placed her heels in the cold metal stirrups, spreading her legs wide, exposing herself completely to the room.
A different henchman, younger and trying to look clinical, snapped on rubber gloves. He approached the end of the table. Batgirl turned her head to the side, eyes squeezed shut, as she felt the cold, lubricated touch of his gloved fingers part her outer lips. He pressed inward, his fingers intruding deep, probing and stretching in a cruel parody of a medical procedure. She cried out, a short, choked sound, as he swept his fingers around inside her, his touch clinical and invasive. He removed his fingers with a slick sound.
“Internally clear,” he said, his voice shaky.
“See? Healthy as a horse,” Ivy mused. “A very tense horse.”
Marcus stepped forward again, his own arousal now visibly straining against his pants. “Doc, come on. We’ve been good. Let us… let us loosen her up. A little workout in the back before the big boss arrives?”
Ivy studied Batgirl’s naked, trembling form on the table. She sighed, as if indulging children. “Very well. A short one. Undress yourselves first. I won’t have you ruining your uniforms.”
Eagerly, the four henchmen stripped, their clothes falling in heaps. Batgirl, released from the stirrups, sat up slowly. She saw their cocks, erect and bobbing, and knew with a sinking certainty exactly what they were for. What was about to happen.
“Bring her,” Ivy said, waving a dismissive hand toward a heavy metal door at the back of the warehouse.
Naked, Batgirl was pulled from the table. Marcus’s hand was firm on her bare shoulder, steering her forward. She walked slowly, her head down, the movement causing her breasts to bounce with each step. The other naked men flanked her, their hungry eyes devouring her body.
They reached the door. Ivy pulled it open, revealing a darker, smaller storage room. “Thirty minutes,” she said flatly.
Batgirl was pushed inside. The henchmen filed in after her. The last one, Marcus, turned and gave Ivy a grinning nod before pulling the door shut.
The lock engaged with a solid, final click.
Batgirl stood in the center of the room, surrounded by four naked, aroused men. The only light seeped under the door. She was locked in. Alone with them.
In her ear, Batman’s voice was relentless, tinged with growing desperation. “Barbara! Can you hear me? I’m at the warehouse. Talk to me. What’s your status?”
She couldn’t speak. She could only stare as the men began to close the circle.