Supergirl: Tone and Bone

[girlofsteel]

Okay, I still don't know what this is.

I barely write anymore but, a few weeks back, I felt the urge to put pen to paper and, well...I guess, this is more of a start than an actual story (we'll see).

I promise, Supergirl is in it...but, be warned, it will take some patience to get there.

For those still reading, this fan-fiction story is in the dungeon for a reason. Expect mature themes, so stay away if you like pickleball, gym bros and rascally old men. Otherwise, hope you enjoy .

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The simmering, red glow of the sun alerted the citizens of Metropolis to expect yet another record-breaking day of heat, as it slowly began to rise. But it wasn’t exhaustion, or even the endless sound of police sirens, that caused the shirtless man to pause midstride. Afterall, he had been jogging the industrial shoreline of the city’s West side for well over fifty years.

And, in that time, nothing – not heatstroke or even the dealings of petty criminals – had ever caused Terry “Juicy” Weaver to abandon his daily, six-mile run. But, when he spotted the group of twenty-somethings setting up their net, he froze flat in his tracks. A splash of sweat zipping through the air as he whipped off his bandana and growled, “Damn yuppies.”

Despite his age, Juicy was in better shape than most. His tight muscles evident through his thinning, wrinkled flesh. The care he put into his body – his temple –oddly in stark contrast to his appearance. Indifferent to the perspiration rolling down his unshaven face or the sound of his sweat-drenched, yellow trunks smacking against his bulging quads, he stormed into the parking lot—his parking lot.

“Knock this pitter-patter shit off!” hollered Juicy, arms raised, in a chaotic, frantic motion, as he exploded onto the make-shift court. His frustration mounting with every failed attempt to kick the perforated ball—its incessant whistling fueling his anger as it evaded his outstretched foot.

“Whoa, bro, not cool,” exclaimed the nearest shaggy-haired kid, his eyes gleaming from the surrounding haze of marijuana. “You gotta wait your turn if you wanna play man.”

The lanky stoner’s squeaky, almost cartoonish, voice increased Juicy’s rage. “Play? Play! This isn’t a sport, it’s a bloody plague,” wailed Juicy, once again taking aim at the ball, only to stub his toe against the concrete. A large crack seemingly emanating from his back, as he leaned down to caress his foot.

“You okay, there gramps,” asked another disheveled-looking member of the group—a girl. A flash of worry gripping her pudgy face as she suddenly rushed over. “Maybe you should sit down or something” she continued, motioning toward a nearby bench.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” insisted Juicy, dismissing her concern with a wave before turning his attention to his white socks; rolling them up with uncharacteristic care…anything to delay the need to straighten his spine. “Just gotta to stretch, that’s all.”

“You know, you’re pretty spry for an old fella,” remarked the girl. Clearly the leader, her smile beamed, as she brushed back her lofty hair with one hand, while extending a flyer with the other. “Wanna join our club? We’re always on the hunt for more…seasoned players.”

“Oh…hell no!” shouted Juicy, tearing the folded paper from her outreached fingers. His anger once again boiling as he began reading the bold typed face: West End Pickelball Club.

“What, come on…,” cheered the girl, “I bet you’re a natural.”

“Of course I am,” barked Juicy.

Suddenly, like some aged, half-naked version of Elvis crossed with Hulk Hogan, his feet began to shuffle. Hips swirling, even as he clutched his lower lumbar for support. His loose, rolling flesh, bringing his muscles in and out of focus with each perverse thrust. Until, with a crack, Juicy’s spine slipped back into place. Air visibly rushing in and out of his cheeks, while his eyes bulged wildly. “Ohhhhhh, yeah,” he shouted, arms stretched out at his sides, enjoying one last thrust. “That’ll get the blood pumping.”

The girl was mortified. “That’s just gross,” she said, trying to shake away the image of the old man’s grinding hips. Her lips curling down in disgust as she wiped away a splatter of Juicy’s sweat from her arm. “Can’t you at least put on a shirt?”

“Relax darling,” said Juicy, whipping out a comb from his back pocket and making a show of slicking back his long, white hair, “You’re looking at the dance king of the west side.” Shifting his weight from one foot to the next, Juicy re-engaged with a crooked smile. “From swing to Motown to tap, the ladies go wild when old Juicy unleashes his style.”

“Double gross,” replied the girl as Juicy held out his business card. “Wait, you actually call yourself Juicy?” asked the girl, turning over the silhouette of the dancing figurines to reveal the old man’s contact info, beneath the title: Tone and Bone.

“Is that like your motto or something?”

“What? No!”, said Juicy, countering her look of disdain with one of his own. His eyes critically sweeping over her loose-fitting apparel as he proudly proclaimed, “It’s my place of worship. You see, darling, you and your friends are on holy ground. As he spoke, Juicy swept back his arm, motioning toward the rectangular building behind him. For over 35 years, this gym has been the heart and soul of this community.”

“Wait! What? That place even up to code?” asked the lanky kid, a fresh plume of smoke flowing out from his nostrils as his head leaned back, eyes squinting, attempting to read the semi-illuminated sign that covered the cracked concrete exterior, the one that read: Tone and Bone – 24/hour Fitness.

“You better believe it,” beamed Juicy. “Fifty-thousand square feet of heavenly-induced pain and gain. So, stop scaring away my customers with this…yuppy frou-frou nonsense.”

“It’s 6 a.m. and the parking lot is empty!” shouted the girl.

“Yeah,” added the lanky kid. “Stop messing with our sport old man.”

“For Pete’s sake!” snapped Juicy. “You’re not even wearing athletic apparel. You can’t call it a sport, when it’s over 120 degrees and you’re dressed in flip-flops. So, either put on some shorts and pay the membership fee or…,” suddenly, Juicy raised his hands, as he paused, and began to animate his words, “…take your yellow, high-pitched ball and go ‘play’ make believe on somebody else’s dime.

“On second thought,” said Juicy, refusing to surrender the floor; enjoying the flash of red gripping the girl’s face as he closed his extended hand (by touching his fingers to his thumb, in a puppet-like motion), to silence her protest. His eyes sweeping over her rotund frame as he smacked his dry lips before continuing, “skip the shorts. Nobody wants to see those legs.”

“Whoa…that’s not cool bro,” exclaimed the lanky kid beside her. His hand nearly knocking the engorged joint from between his lips as he raised it up to brush his curly locks from his face. “That’s my sister man.”

“Yeah, show some respect,” chirped another. “This isn’t the 50s bruh, it’s not cool to body shame.”

Juicy had had enough. His wild eyes staring down the young men, even as his outstretched index finger beckoned them to approach. “That’s what I thought,” said Juicy, snickering at their hesitation as well as the sight of their overalls.

“Hey man”, said the lanky kid, his hands fumbling to raise his smartphone. “I got this on camera.”

The sound of the kid’s incessant, Mikey Mouse-like voice caused Juicy to burst out with laughter. “That’s the issue with your generation, you turn to gadgets to solve your problems.” As he spoke, Juicy began to flex his pecs. The saggy flesh bursting to life on one side and then the other, as he continued, “And yet, you crumble at the first sign of resistance.”

“Let it go,” said the girl, taking hold of their elbows and pulling the two guys back. Her eyes clearly filled with tears. “This boomer is cray-cray.”

“Life’s a grind little chalupas, stop taking the easy way out,” hollered Juicy. His muscle’s continuing to flex, casting judgement upon the young stoners as they scurried to take down their nets. His eyes, however, quickly drifted toward the girl who had just pulled into the parking lot, riding a blue and red-striped motorcycle.

A Ninja…nice, thought Juicy, nodding in approval. His eyes fixated on the girl's long legs, wrapped in dark-grey leggings, as she pivoted over the bike and dismounted with a graceful swivel.

I’m diggin’ the silhouette, Now, please be attractive, please be attractive, he silently prayed, carefully watching as she took off her helmet. But before he could fully see her face, she turned to slip on a baseball cap. His disappointment quickly fading as his eyes returned to her well-parted legs. One thing is for certain, thought Juicy, enjoying the long ride and sleek, youthful tone, she’s definitely playing hard to get it.
And, like that, the chase was on.

But just as it looked like she might slip away, Juicy thrust back his elbows in tandem with his hips. Sweat flying from his half-naked frame as he began to shuffle back. Desperate to pick up steam he even began to emulate the sound of a moving train through his pursed lips. His awkwardness, and toothy smile causing the girl to hesitate, just long enough for him to claim the landing.

“Welcome to Tone and Bone, little darling.”

With a nervous grin, the girl thanked him for holding the door. Unable to escape, she could feel his wanting eyes crawling up the back of her legs. Her hand instantly reaching back to pull down on her over-sized hoody to deflect his seedy gaze as she cautiously maneuvered around him to enter the gym.

For Juicy Weaver, things were certainly looking up.

[girlofsteel]

Reception feels cold. Understandable...admittedly this is a different kind of tale. That or I really offended the pickleball crowd.

Either way, I've always wanted to explore what happens to Supergirl after her defeat. No promises as to how far this will go, and, no doubt, others have done it better. Still, for better or for worse, here is my attempt at a bit of fun with some lesser-tapped territory.

Part 2

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Only two months ago, Kara Zor-El would have readily welcomed all the lust-filled stares. Her long, smooth legs collecting countless eyes, as they whipped her short, flared skirt from one hip to the next. Her sexual energy radiating as she seemingly glided into the room – any room – gleefully soaking up the adulation of the crowd.

Her blue eyes dancing with delight as she shamelessly masked her efforts to amplify her breasts with a slow toss of her luscious, blonde locks. Her cool demeanor unfazed by the excess strain that her well-rounded curves would place upon her bright red and yellow top as she gently rolled back her shoulders. Her lean and athletic frame continuing to mesmerize admirers even as she swiveled away, with a parting wink and a playful smile.

Harmless fun.

At least it used to be, thought Kara, staring up at a life-sized poster of herself as Supergirl. Surprised to see her partially sun-faded image, with arms akimbo, beneath a hokey “abs of steel” banner, hanging in the lobby. She had purposefully selected this rundown gym because she wanted to escape all semblance of her former, heroic life.

A life that she – lifting a hand toward her waist – now realized had all but faded. Did I ever even look that good, she thought, wondering if the poster had been digitally enhanced. Can anyone’s stomach actually be that smooth. Her downward gaze and curled lip clearly reflecting her disdain with the current state of her midriff as her palm gingerly touched against her sweater.

“Femke keeps urging me to take it down.”

Startled by the husky voice, Kara spun straight into Juicy’s outstretched arms.

“Ah…, sorry, I didn’t see you,” blurted Kara, eager to evade the still-shitless man’s lively touch. His excitement compelling her to step back, even as she shot a quick glance toward the nearby mirror. Nervously adjusting her cap, she was relieved to see that her brunette wig had remained firmly in place. She wanted to ask, “who’s Femke” as she returned her attention toward Juicy but, before she could, the old man, once again, swept in.

“No worries, darling,” Juicy replied, meeting her soft, blue eyes with his patented toothy smile. Though weathered by age, he was still doing his best to accentuate his vaulted chess. Proudly whisking his white shirt over his shoulder; hoping she’d notice the muscles partially buried beneath the sweeping curls of white, sweaty hair and wrinkled flesh.

“Some people were happy to see her fall,” continued Juicy, drawing Kara’s attention back toward the poster with an outstretched hand. “But not me. She may have met her match, but I still hope she returns.

“Even though the entire world witnessed her defeat, she deserved better. After everything she did…yeah…it’s too bad she won’t be getting back in that rocking outfit. Especially after that beast of a woman humiliated her. Stripping her and…,” Juicy paused, a slight glint of sadness in his eyes, as he shook his head, “…well, we all know what happened.”

Suddenly, Kara could feel her stomach begin to turn. I…I can’t do this, she thought, wrapping both her arms around her belly. I shouldn’t have come. I’m not ready. Juicy’s words had stirred too many unwanted memories. Her labored breath instantly causing her leggings to dig into her lower abdomen. And, as it did, images of her torn costume flashed through her mind.

“You okay there darling?” asked Juicy, taking note of the perspiration forming on Kara’s brow. He had seen this before. “It’s all right, little lady,” he assured, wrapping a muscular arm around Kara’s slender shoulders. “None of us start off like the Girl of Steel on day one. Fitness is a life-long journey, and you’ve come to the right place to take those all-important first steps.”

But the feel of Juicy’s tingling fingers, ridding down her spine, only added to Kara’s distress. “I know…this place may look rough but, I promise, it won’t bite,” said Juicy, flashing another toothy smile. “Here let me show you around.”

With a yelp, Kara protested as she was abruptly pulled forward. Juicy’s musky scent causing her head to spin even faster as he whisked her toward the main workout area. Her worries intensifying as she caught the reflective glares of the gymbros by the free weights. Their leery eyes gravitating toward the thin, stretchy fabric of her leggings.

Unable to shake the feeling that she was being watched, Kara desperately attempted to bury herself in her hoody. But no matter how hard she squirmed – her clenched fists pulling every which way on the soft fabric – there was seemingly never enough room to hide. Her anxiety rising as Juicy continued to parade her before an endless series of rusted workout equipment.

His booming voice, proudly proclaiming, “We call this area the pit; it’s where all the heavy hitters come to play.” Fist bumping yet another muscle-bound client, Juicy pressed on, “You have your run-of-the-mill squat racks along the wall. Bench and deadlifts to the side and Nautilus machines here and over there.” As he spoke, Juicy pointed at the various contraptions (all well-worn, and with pieces of cushioning either torn or missing), but Kara’s attention quickly shifted toward the cardio area.

“Ah…yes,” said Juicy, extending both arms and pointing toward the upper level. “That’s the gallery. As you can see, it wraps the pit. It offers running machines, rowers, sleds – great for the knees – and even a yoga studio. Plus, it has all the best views…if you know what I mean,” chuckled Juicy with a quick flex of his pecks.

The cringe on Kara’s face made it clear that she understood all too well. Still doing her best to avert all the trolling eyes. Despite her long and lean figure, she no longer felt at ease amongst the spandex-clad crowd. Her public defeat had left her broken. Stripped of not just her costume but her confidence, it had taken her weeks to muster the courage to leave her fortress; let alone enter a gym.

Why did I wear low-rise, she cursed, sensing her leggings burrowing ever deeper between her cheeks, intensifying her wedgie. Her insecurities mounting with every unsolicited stare. From her scalp to her breasts, she could feel the growing beads of perspiration starting to pool. And yet, despite her discomfort, she dared not remove her sweater. Because, even with Juicy’s foul breath washing over her, she couldn’t escape one overriding thought: They know.

Fearful that her brunette wig was no longer sufficient to conceal her identity, she once again nervously began tugging down on her cap. Pretender! Fake! Slut! Kara could hear the voices of all those around her inside her head. Or was it another memory? Unsure of herself and her footing, she began to wobble. “So, many people,” she blurted even as her hand reached out for something…anything to hold. But all she found was Juicy. His all too eager touch slipping under the back of her sweater.

Never one to miss a beat, the old man instantly leaned in. “Oh, this is nothing,” explained Juicy, his husky voice dropping an octave, while his fingers began to play with the band of her leggings. “This is just the morning rush. Or as I like to call it, the grind. That’s right, little lady, life’s too short to spend on the couch. It’s like the sign says,” continued Juicy, his eyes drawing Kara’s attention away from his touch and toward the large gold font inscribed along the back wall: Today I have to get to work out.

“You see darling, we all face the hard decisions” said Juicy, his outstretched palm, attempting to paint a mental image. Kara’s dizziness, however, only increased with each flick and slash of his swirling wrist. “Life’s aches and pains come for us all. What matters is how we respond. So, strap on a helmet and listen up…”, continued Juicy, finally resting his waving hand, to Kara’s great relief, against his ear. His voice dropping to a whisper as he shifted his body weight to one side. “Can you hear it?

“Ohhhhhh, yeah,” enthusiastically belted juicy, delighting in the thundering clash of weights slamming against the floor. “That’s the sound of victory. Nothing better than clang and bang, baby.”

But it was the image on the screens, rather than the old man’s gyrating hips, that held Kara’s attention. She had little reason to take note of the supersized TV’s, that lined the gym’s walls, until now. But, as they unexpectedly flicked to life, her lips began to quiver. The tightness in her stomach nearly doubling her over, from the sight of her tattered costume flapping in the breeze—held to a solitary flagpole by the blue, silky-smooth underlining that had once nestled her crotch.

The frayed edges of her torn-apart S lathered in both soot and blood – her blood – instantly reminding her of the painful blows that had brought her to her knees. Her eyes filling with tears, as if she were once again witnessing her famed “abs of steel” being pummeled into a swollen mass of purple and blue. A flash of pain gripping her face from the memory of her opponent’s unrelenting fists tearing her abdominals and rib cartilage apart.

All Kara wanted to do was scream, but the only sound that escaped her mouth was a gasp. The rush of cool air flowing down her spine snapping her back into the present; alerting her to Juicy’s violating touch. “Stop that,” she demanded, suddenly pivoting to face the old man. Slapping away his hand, which had plunged beneath the band of her leggings to grip her ass.

“Sorry darling,” said Juicy, his palms raised in apology. “You kept humming and hawing…I meant no disrespect,” he continued, a twinkle in his eye, as well in his fingers.

Her anger boiling, Kara had had her fill of both this creepy old man and his gym. Everything about this sleezy place is wrong, she thought, her hand still nursing the pinch Juicy had imparted on her bum cheek. I should never have come. But as she turned, and prepared to storm out, her legs nearly buckled. Engulfed by an all too familiar shadow, Kara Zor-El’s eyes bolted upward. Her anger instantly melting into cold, blunt fear from the muscular silhouette that stood before her.

[Void]

This has been an absolute pleasure to read so far. It gives a strong sense of the characters and feels confidently told. It's a really intriguing context to see Kara in, and it's doing a nice job of gradually cluing us in to both how we got here and where *here* is for Kara personally. It's compelling stuff! I'm not sure I can quite put my finger on it, but I really like this conceit of seeing Kara so mentally disempowered because of a previous terrible defeat mixed with the scenario her civilian alter ego finds herself in. It's definitely connecting for me.

I think you nail it with all the weirdly intimate liberties that Juicy is taking - particularly him idly playing with the band of her leggings while he talks to her. I'm here for it.

Is this picking up from a previous story, or is this relating to its own internal backstory? I get the sense it's the latter, but I'm way behind on your previous stories. They are on my reading list, though, and I'll fire you a message when I'm caught up.

[DrDominator9]

Enjoying the pace of Supergirl's pychological foundation eroding here. Looking forward to where you take this.

[girlofsteel]

Thanks Void and glad to hear it’s connecting.

To be honest, this is the story I’ve always wanted to write but could never figure out how. In many ways, I’m still not sure.

At first it was just a bit of fun. Juicy, in particular, was a blast to write. He’s really the main reason I kept going and…well, before I knew it something was taking shape. But the idea of Supergirl recovering or attempting to bounce back from a defeat has always been intriguing. The problem is I tend to give up on my stories before I get there.

Still, I’m blown away by your backstory question. The hope is, absolutely, for the story to stand on its own but, yeah, it could easily be a sequel to any number of stories…especially Lost in the Swarm.

The origins, however, go back to an old image (I believe by Sgirl911) of an opponent holding Supergirl above her head. For some reason the visual of Supergirl’s limp body, displayed before a crowd has always stayed with me.

Fans of Joniar will also recognize similarities to Tawila. To this day, it remains a personal fav – highly recommend. But the primary influence was Supergirl vs. the Demon. In fact, more than the original the sequel, where a defeated Supergirl crash lands on a beach, only to face further degradation at the hands of some squatters (or something like that) was also on my mind. I know it may not seem like it but Supergirl, at least for me, has always been a triumphant character. Seeing her bounce back, despite the odds has always been alluring. Problem is, unlike the Girl of Steel, I tend to give easily.

Above all, thank you for commenting. And, hopefully, you too continue your own Supergirl adventures.

And, Dr. D.,, glad you’re also enjoying.
I’ll try and post the next chapter over the weekend. After that…no promises. Time is the enemy at the moment.

[girlofsteel]

Hopefully folks have enjoyed this mature, fan-fiction tale of peril for what it is...a bit of creative fun, and nothing more. Thus far, it's been a blast exploring a different take on Supergirl's adventures. Unfortunately, this is as far as time will permit me to go. But if it gets some traction...well, you never know.

Here's a quick recap: After suffering a very public defeat, Supergirl is no longer certain of her place in the world. Having been striped, in more ways than one, of her identity, she seeks solace in a rundown gym. However, the last daughter or Krypton quickly realize that, at Tone and Bone, she's in for far more than a good sweat, as a seedy cast of characters set about to either break or remake the Girl of Steel.

Now, on to Part 3

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Kara could sense the derision of the women around her. Their sleek muscularity and angular features wrapped in the latest and greatest body-hugging couture. Their haughty stares and dismissive gazes, reminding her that both she and her baggy sweater, didn’t belong.

How could she.

When, by almost every measure, these women were fitter, stronger … better, than her. True super girls, especially the one in the middle—the one that Juicy called Femke.

“You lost, little one?” the muscle-bound woman asked. Her biceps flaring as she slowly began to unwrap the white tape that encircled her thick wrists. “There’s no spa, or massage parlor waiting for you here. No one will offer you a latte, or hand you a towel.” Femke’s slow and measured words were all-the-more pronounced by her refusal to meet Kara’s bewildered gaze.

“The only thing you’ll find,” continued Femke, “is pain.” As she spoke, dust from her chalk-covered hands filled the surrounding air. The swirling specs of white endowing her hazel eyes with a golden hue. A ring of fire, that momentarily aligned her gaze with the yellow bands that ran down either side of her otherwise brown bodysuit.

But it was the woman’s chiseled veneer that held Kara’s attention. After all, the last time she had stood before someone whose raw physical attributes so outclassed her own, she had not only ended up on her knees but had called her master. And while Femke wasn’t her conqueror, her dreams were now dominated by a similar pair of large, meaty hands.

For the past six weeks, those hands had caused Kara to wake in terror. Screaming from the sight of her S symbol being ripped in two. Her sheets doused in the stink of her own sweat. Her naked body equally lathered. Steam rising from her skin, even as her lips quivered. Unable to shake the haunting image of her willowy frame being smashed upon her foe’s outstretched knee, gasping frantically for breath.

Night after night, Kara was consumed by this never-ending nightmare. Her limbs thrashing, almost as if she were once again back in the grip of her conqueror. But despite her efforts, she remained unable to take in air. Her humiliation only increasing as she slowly realized that the feel of the wiry moistness between her legs, was due to far more than mere sweat.

Helpless, Kara could do little but sink back into the growing pool of her own bodily fluids. Her chest pounding in protest, until, finally, she was able to find the strength to wipe away her tears. Her shame quickly drowned in a bottle of Kandorian ale and a fresh tub of ice cream.

That is, until today.

Perhaps it was the hologram of her parents which pulled Kara out of her daze—relief gripping her face, even as the unexpected flicker of blue light cast her mind back toward the swell of anger and self pity that had initially caused her to knock it onto the floor. Or maybe it was the reflection of her once pretty face, now haggard and hollow, that compelled her to stop staring at the endless clips of distress and horror on her phone. Whatever it was, something inside of her had shifted, redirecting her shaking hands away from the alcohol and, instead, toward her clothes.

Frustrated by the lack of options, why is everything I own either blue or red?, she settled on her one pair of dark grey leggings. Startled by an unfamiliar tightness around her waist, she gazed with dismay at the full-body mirror. While her tall, lithesome body remained, she struggled to find her once sleek, muscle tone. The lack of pop in her bum all too visible, even with a helping lift from her skin-tight leggings.

Determined to make a change, Kara Zor-El, the last daughter of Krypton, straddled her bike. As she prepared to ride, she didn’t even know if it was day or night, and she didn’t care. For the first time in nearly two months, she was finally feeling more like her old self again. That is, until she felt an unwelcomed jiggle in her thighs from the thrum of the motor between her legs.

With a sigh, and a quick shake of her head, she cast away any remaining doubts. Gunning the engine, Kara sensed that her hopes of regaining any semblance of her former self rested heavily on the events of the next few hours. Come what may, she needed to start facing her demons.

After all, she was….

“Supergirl!”

With an audible gasp, Kara’s eyes shot up. She had come to the gym to help break free of her nightmares; but the sight of Femke’s rascally grin unleashed a whole new set of fears.

How did she know, thought Kara, blood draining from her face as she nervously reached up. But even as her fingers gingerly melted into her cap and brushed against her brunette wig, a flood of negative emotions continued to creep into her mind.

Ever since her defeat, she had been dreading this moment. After everything her conqueror had done. After everything she had been made to endure. How could she possibly explain? Could she even explain? Let alone stand before the public again wearing her S? Especially now that she wasn’t sure what, if anything, it stood for?

RIP!

She could still hear the fabric of her costume tearing in her mind. And, as she did, all she wanted to do was hide. Her hands cupping her face, burying her tears. But, no matter which way she turned, she couldn’t escape the sight of her naked breasts bursting through the shredded strands of her once tight top. The mental flashes, as well as the recollection of her conqueror’s incessant laughter, causing her to tumble back onto the floor as her knees buckled.

Unable to tell whether it was the gym, her head or some combination that was spinning out of control, Kara’s ass thumbed hard against the concrete. Her accompanying scream hurling the wind from her chest. Her slumped body wilting, head bowed, before a slew of ravenous eyes.

Once again, Kara found herself at the foot of a physically superior being. Except this time, she had fallen without a single blow. Her eyes shaking, with both fear and humiliation, as she remained buried beneath Femke’s hulking shadow.

The woman’s growing smile instantly increased the tightness in Kara’s abdomen. “I got it, didn’t I?” asked Femke, her voice swelling with pride. “Supergirl, Supergirl, Supergirl…I should have known. You can’t fool me,” boasted Femke, her index finger pointing knowingly toward the 19-year-old, sprawled before her.

[DrDominator9]

Kara's mind is a mess. If she doesnt get herself right she'll never be able to face her foes and win. Whenever you can spare some time, this story is worth continuing, girlofsteel.

[Void]

More good stuff. I really like this premise, starting a story with SG in the aftermath long after most peril stories would have ended. Definitely an interesting idea to explore.

There's also some pleasing writing in there - I was really taken with this line : The swirling specs of white endowing her hazel eyes with a golden hue.

Using 'endowing' in this way is something I am going to start doing.

I'm certainly curious where the story will go from here if you continue it. Hopefully you come into more writing time again before too long - I know how brutal it can be never being in a position to write.

[girlofsteel]

I'm still on the fence on this one.

For those who are following, here's a quick recap:

After suffering a very public defeat, Supergirl is no longer certain of her place in the world. Having been striped, in more ways than one, of her identity, she seeks solace in a rundown gym. However, the last daughter or Krypton quickly realize that, at Tone and Bone, she's in for far more than a good sweat, as a seedy cast of characters set about to either break or remake the Girl of Steel.

Hopefully folks enjoy this mature, fan-fiction tale of peril for what it is...a bit of creative fun, and nothing more.

Here's part 4:

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Like prey caught in the onrush of a predator’s charge, Kara froze. Her limbs seemingly anchored to the floor, unable to move. Intimidated by Femke’s boulder-like shoulders, the only sound she could make, as this behemoth of a woman finally turned to face her, was a whimper, “Please.”

As she spoke, Kara felt increasingly unmoored. She had already lost her costume, herself, and now, seemingly, her pride. Please…,” she cooed, yet again, her voice utterly submissive, “… don’t do this.”

Drowning in a sea of self-loathing, Kara’s delicate psyche remained drawn to Femke’s radiant smile. The woman’s pixie-bob haircut, amplifying her chiseled jawline as she hooked her platinum-blonde bangs behind her ears. But it was the glow of the woman’s pale skin, wrapped tightly over angular features, that had Kara questioning her own fitness. I doubt she too scarfed an entire tub of chocolate and cookie dough.

The mere thought of last night’s dinner, and what it was doing to her body, caused Kara’s stomach to churn yet again. However, it was the strength of Femke’s fiery eyes – as they finally locked with her own – that sent Kara reeling. Especially once she realized where Femke was actually staring.

Oh no!, thought Kara, snapping her legs together. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she felt a stream of liquid pool into her underwear. Please Rao, she prayed, squeezing her thighs, in a desperate attempt to contain the flow. This can’t be happening. Not here. The sound of Femke’s laughter glossing her eyes with tears.

“I see why you like this one,” chided Femke, her attention directed toward Juicy. “Just what this run-down place needs, another misguided Supergirl fan. The little dove even looks the part.” As she spoke, Femke directed an admiring glance back toward Kara’s tall and long-limbed body, squirming on the floor.

“This could be fun,” Femke continued, pausing to place a hand on the old man’s shoulder, “but this scrawny thing doesn’t belong in the pit.” Suddenly, Kara was beginning to feel lost in the conversation. She understood the words, but the shared glance between Femke and Juicy hinted at a larger, hidden subtext.

“What happened, little girl, you take a wrong turn on your way to the mall?” snapped Femke, shifting her attention back to Kara. But instead of the expected anger, the former, heroic teen felt a swell of relief. Thank Rao, she thought, her identity safe…at least for now. However, she wasn’t sure about her other secret—the one between her legs. While her underwear remained moist and sticky, the stain didn’t appear to have bled into her dark grey leggings.

But even as Kara cautiously wiggled to her feet – one hand padding her bloated belly, while the other pulled down on her oversized hoody to conceal her crotch – a nervousness remained. After all, she still had Femke; her two lieutenants as well as Juicy to contend with. Plus, all the other prying eyes, each eagerly locked-in as she was suddenly surrounded.

“I’m not looking for trouble,” said Kara, as Femke stepped towards her. The woman’s muscle-hardened physique – forged from a spartan-like mentality – casting instant shame on her own as it smacked against her tender flesh.

At 5’9”, Kara wasn’t accustomed to being outmatched, especially by another woman. After all, her Kryptonian might had foiled the plans of endless, muscle-bound invaders. But the feel of Femke’s breasts digging into her own struck at her most basic of insecurities.

Unsure of how to respond, she tried to retreat – desperate to regather her thoughts – but to her surprise, there was nowhere to go; Femke’s lieutenants were hemming her in. The frightening girth of their equally large muscles evident, thanks to their sleeveless bodysuits, as they crossed their arms.

Kara didn’t understand where all the hostility was coming from. But there was no mistaking the fiery look in Femke’s eyes as she began to pull down on the front zip of her skintight top. The growth in the woman’s already sizable chest was startling. Liberated from their tight constraints, her breasts seemingly leapt forward.

Kara, mouth gapping, watched as her own breasts all but disappeared beneath the weight of the impossibly large orbs that had suddenly jutted out to invade her space. This bestial display of dominance left the one-time Maid of Might wondering, what kind of messed up place is this.

“As I suspected,” said Femke with a half-cocked smile, “pleasing… but soft. Like your precious Supergirl, you fold under pressure.” Pausing to relish Kara’s discomfort, Femke, with a playful bite of her lower lip, continued to dial up the pressure. Enjoying the apprehension on the young girl’s face as she pulled down, yet again, on her zipper. Her nipples threatening to spring free as the V-shaped parting in her suit dipped ever-dangerously below her navel.

Transfixed by the woman’s massive breasts, Kara still didn’t know how to react. No one did. From the gallery above to the pit below, none doubted that the gym belonged to Femke. Their ominous silence casting an eerie presence.

That is, until one loud, solitary voice rang out across the gym.

“OHHHHH YEAH!” belted Juicy, slapping his hands together and stomping his feet—delighted to see Femke’s hulking frame standing off against Kara’s.

Though both were similar in height, they were anything but equal. Femke had the shoulders of an Olympic rower. Broad and powerful, with a wasp-like waist and narrow hips.

Kara, on the other hand, was a wisp of a girl. I bet she farts through silk, thought Juicy struggling to outline her tall and lean body within her oversized hoody. Clearly, she wouldn’t be much of a match and, yet, it had been weeks since anyone had challenged his champion. The growing restlessness spreading throughout the pit.

Plus, there was something in Kara’s clear, blue eyes that Juicy couldn’t quite place. He sensed a growing familiarity—his foot, suddenly tapping to a quickening beat. Humming along to a song he knew, but couldn’t quite name: In the darkest night, rising like a spire. In the burning heart, the unmistakable fire…. “Survivor baby,” shouted Juicy, “It’s definitely time to Tone and Bone.”

With a huff, Femke brushed Kara aside, forcing the younger girl to grunt out in pain from the mashing of breasts as she turned toward the old man. His shirtless body still gyrating.

“Forget it Juice,” sneered Femke, “this little one is hardly worth the effort. Look at her, she is rife with insecurity. Enamored with self-image, she hides in her sweater. Even worse, her body is clearly struggling to cope—already sweeting like a pig and the workout hasn’t even begun.”

As Femke spoke, Kara could feel the sweat dripping down her brow. Her breath heavy, heightening her attention upon her body. She was surprised to find her fists clenched. Shoulders pressed back and legs parted. Without realizing it, she was gearing up for a fight. Startled by the thought, she instantly stepped back. I’m not that girl anymore. Just walk away; my life is different now.

Kara’s running shoes squeaked against the floor as she swiveled. Feet stomping, arms swinging at her sides, she powered toward the exit. She was regretting having ever entered this insane, fight-club of a gym. Or having met this sleezy old man. And, above all, she was through with Femke’s perverse aggression. I don’t need to take this. I have nothing to prove. I am Kara of Argo City. Daughter of Alura and Zor-El and I don’t….

“Scare easily do you!”

Kara did her best to block out Femke’s laughter. Just as she was doing her best to ignore all the leering looks—some bouncing off the mirrors that lined the pit’s walls, while others shot directly down at her from the gallery above. How could I ever have enjoyed this, thought Kara, her skin crawling as she hastily pulled down on the brim of her cap, attempting to cast off the unwanted attention.

“Just like Supergirl…you turn tail.”

Clenching her teeth, Kara pressed on. Her nails once again digging into her palms, sending shots of pain up into her arms, as she clenched her fists. Just ignore her, you’re almost at the exit.

“You wouldn’t be the first scared little kitty to run out that door. Run little pussy…run.”

Kara didn’t need to turn around to see Femke’s smile. She could sense it though the excited gasps of the crowd as she skidded to a stop. Her hands slowly pushing up the sleeves of her hoody, readying for action. Though slender, her long, sleek legs hinted at an innate athleticism—endowing her youthful frame with a graceful, but powerful aura as she spun toward Femke.

Even Juicy sensed the change in Kara’s demeanor. This wasn’t the same meek girl who had entered the gym. This one, with eyes burning, had something to prove. Slicking back his white hair with his trusty comb, the old man, still shirtless, was struggling to contain his enthusiasm. His twitching pecks, unleashing a cascade of saggy flesh as he excitedly breathed, “buckle up baby, it’s on.”

But the floor, and its audience, still belonged to Femke. Her fingers gently tapping against her legs, with each casual step toward Kara. Like a lion, circling a potential meal, she was deciding how best to strike. “Tell me, do you still think about that night?” With a glance toward the screens, Femke paused. Ensuring she held Kara’s gaze before licking her lips at the sight of the heroine’s shredded costume flapping from the flagpole. “… I do.

“Who could forget Supergirl’s endless moans. Her conqueror hoisting her broken body into the air. Legs dangling. Red boots scrapping the ground as her parted arms were bound at the wrists by the shredded remnants of her own cape.”

The pounding in Kara’s chest increased with every piercing word, hastening the pooling of her perspiration beneath her arms and around her breasts. The warm exhale of her breath, joining her sweat as it coated her face. But even as she winced and shrank back the woman kept walking her down. Tearing into Kara with venomous intent.

“Her precious S torn, exposing her tits. Stretched and bruised, her delicate flesh flapping from side to side as she moaned…like a whore.”

Clenching her jaw, Kara had to fight to refrain from taking hold of her breasts. She didn’t understand how, but Femke’s vile words had rekindled the soreness in her nips. Come on girl, hold it together, thought Kara. Her face contorting in anguish as she felt them harden and chafe against her sports bra.

“One gallon, two gallons, three gallons…four! The veins in her titties swelling with each explosive squirt. Her pulsing body heaving for air. And still she continued to produce for her conqueror.”

“Stop it! Stop it!” demanded Kara. Arms flailing, frantically attempting to slash away the memories. Reeling from a feeling of pain and stiffness in her muscles—one that she had hoped she’d never experience again.

Femke, feeding off Kara’s distress, quickly moved to disabuse her of that fantasy. “Look at you, screaming for air, just like your hero did as those tendrils snaked up her bloated belly. Slithering under her skin and squeezing her from within. Their thick, creamy juices squirting inside, pumping her womb with their seed. No wonder her super titties gushed as they did.”

Wrapping her arms around her belly, Kara wanted – needed – to scream. Her abs felt like they were convulsing beneath her hoody. The pain doubling her over, fudging her perception. For a second, it felt like she was back on that stretcher being rushed to the nearest hospital by a team of first responders. Heaving for breath. Body convulsing, desperate to eject whatever had been implanted inside her.

Standing above her teetering prey, Femke half expected her to tumble back down onto her ass— such was the shaking in Kara’s thighs. “Not yet, little one,” commanded Femke, taking hold of the front of Kara’s hoody to straighten her back onto her feet. “The game isn’t finished until I say it is,” declared Femke, playing to the crowd as she pulled back her free hand, preparing to deliver a slap.

Kara, as predicted, had been easy pickings. Another misguided Supergirl fan, who, just like the Maid of Might, was about to pay the price for her weakness. Had Supergirl not been so cocky, she could have won her battle. Instead, she played straight into her conqueror’s hands. Severely weakened, Supergirl never stood a chance, falling to a woman who was better trained and far more disciplined.

Pathetic, thought Femke. Her face hardening with disgust as she recalled Supergirl’s final moments. After all, she had been there on that fateful day. Her voluptuous chest wrapped in a blue, red and yellow replica T-shirt, cheering Supergirl on. Mouth open as she watched her idol fall, stripped of both costume and honor.

God she was a mess. Back broken, hips dislocated and still that device kept burrowing into her. Her jerking body gushing all manner of bodily secretions. No wonder she hasn’t attempted to reclaim her costume. She’s probably still on her back, too knocked up to fly, let alone slip into that slinky, little number.

More than the Girl of Steel’s defeat, it was its manner that had changed Femke. While others turned away as the conqueror’s blood-soaked hand waved Supergirl’s tattered costume about in triumph, Femke remained transfixed on the blue underlayer—lathered in creamy, white blotches. It didn’t take long before she, too, was releasing her own pleasure-filled juices.

A life-altering experience, one that Femke had been chasing ever since. But her release had, increasingly, come to depend on total submission. She needed that same look of utter surrender, the one that had swept across Supergirl’s face, as her lips were forced between her master’s thighs.

“Look at me,” demanded Femke, shaking Kara’s limp body with one hand, while the other remained, poised to deliver a slap. “That was quite the swoon back there.” A hint of jealousy creeping into Femke’s voice as she noted Kara’s rolling eyes. “Supergirl clearly meant a lot to you.

“That’s my gift, you know,” continued Femke, “finding people’s weaknesses. And yours, little lady, was written all over your baby blues as soon as you entered. What happened, did you find your lover cheating on you? And now, to get back, you squirmed your way into those pilling leggings and that gaudy over-sized sweater, with dreams of looking like the Girl of Steel? Revenge: that’s usually what gets skinny bitches like you into the gym. You claim not to like the attention but wait until you experience your first pump—better than sex, no Juicy.”

“Better than sex,” reiterated the old man, flashing his toothy smile. “You got it in one.”

“Now, let’s complete your initiation,” said Femke. A twisted smile spreading across her face as the haze in Kara’s eyes began to clear. And, as it did, Femke could feel the growing warmth between her legs, stirring her hips. Craving release, it was time to unleash her hand upon Kara’s cupid-bow lips and angular features. “After all, membership isn’t free.”

[freefall]

I just discovered this story…
Its totally awesome i love the concept

My stories also revolve around Superheroine public defeats and i always struggle to follow them up

[girlofsteel]

For those who are following, here's a quick recap:

Supergirl, having suffered a public defeat in which she was stripped, in more ways than one, of her identity, seeks solace in a rundown gym.

However, at Tone And Bone she faces far more than a good sweat.

Filled with a sordid cast of characters, led by Femke (a music-bound, sex-crazed behemoth,) the Last Daughter or Krypton quickly realize that even she may not have the strength to survive this gruelling workout.

Hopefully folks enjoy this mature, fan-fiction tale of peril for what it is...a bit of creative fun, and nothing more.

Here's part 5:
_____________________________

The crowd had eagerly been anticipating this moment. Drawn to the whip-like release of Femke’s muscular arms, they had come to crave the spectacle. The gruesome mashing of flesh, splattering of blood, irregular movement and blotchy tears – usually in that order – was enough to disabuse any would-be-challenger of their courage. The only question, as all eagerly braced for the pounding thud, was how long it would take for this foolish, slip of a girl to come to her senses.

The answer left everybody stunned.

Except, that is, for Kara—radiating delight as her slender frame held back Femke’s meaty wrist, sending every jaw but hers racing toward the ground.

In truth, she had reacted purely out of instinct. Tempering Femke’s attack less through a show of might and more by the feel of her delicate touch.

Still, the ring of audible gasps only made Kara want to play that much more to the crowd. Funny, how this never gets old, she thought, surprised at the pleasure and excitement she was receiving from the rush of adrenaline. Whether in costume or not, her confidence began to swell. For the first time in nearly two months, she felt reconnected to her carefree nature. Even going as far as to roll her hips, in a trademark display of cockiness.

Kara’s wry smile and loose-limbed manner, however, only deepened the look of anger that gripped her opponent’s face. The stunned silence irking the hulking woman’s pride. Instead of the expected thundering applause, she felt her command – of her pit, her crowd – starting to slip. With a roar, Femke’s wide, sloping shoulders sprung back to life.

But, as the muscular blonde curled back her powerful arms, which still retained a grip on Kara’s sweater, she encountered only the gaudy, black garment. Jaw clenched in frustration, Femke turned, bewildered to find that her slinky opponent had not only slipped free, but had also managed to get behind her.

“Clever girl,” said Femke, her voice layered with bad intent. Even as her eyes quickly softened, marveling at Kara’s, surprisingly, well-formed features. “Well, well,” Femke continued, stroking the side of her cheek with the back of her hand, “aren’t you a bouncy, little thing.”

With her sweater removed, Kara wasn’t so much drawing attention as she was commanding it. Wetting her lips with a slow roll of her tongue, Femke’s eyes hungrily devoured the young, brown-haired beauty’s seductive curves.

When they had touched, Femke had failed to detect her prey’s ample flesh, hidden beneath her baggy sweater. But now, she couldn’t stop moaning in approval at the strained, taut state of the girl’s purple sports bra. The snug squeeze - partially due to the overly tight fit of her scooped top - unleashing pearls of sweat across Kara’s smooth contours.

Tired of being undressed, Kara’s pretty features hardened as Femke walked her down. Attempting to mask her discomfort, she repeatedly shifted her arms – barnacling them around her waist – to ward off the woman’s lust-filled gaze.

“I may have been too hasty, old friend,” said Femke, enjoying Kara’s growing unease. Purring with delight as she tightly crisscrossed her legs, heightening the bulge in her quads, with each exaggerated step. There is potential here…” mused the muscle-strapped blonde, signaling her approval to Juicy with an outstretched hand, while the other continued to gently caress her lips. “But this one…this one needs work.” Pausing, as if to take in the air around her, Femke then added, “she’s also hiding something …from herself or the world or both, it’s not entirely clear.”

Visibly melting under Femke’s interrogation, Kara could feel her sweat beading. Beyond the dampness in her bra, she could sense it running along her scalp, irritating her skin. Her heart pounding as the muscular woman’s spotlight-like gaze started racing up her neckline.

“Don’t worry darling.”

Startled, Kara winced at the sound of Juicy’s husky voice. A look of dread washing over her as she instinctively lowered her hands before she could finish checking on her disguise.

“All our clients receive a complimentary … hands on inspection,” explained Juicy. “It’s policy. You see, now-a-days, everything is either tucked, hidden or concealed. From camera filters to A.I. to well…pick your sporting event” proclaimed Juicy, shaking his head upon recalling his earlier pickleball encounter. “It’s almost impossible to tell what’s real anymore, so that’s why we’ve added a more…personal touch to our memberships.”

Weary of the still-shirtless, old man’s toothy grin, Kara directed a cold gaze toward his lively fingers. Why am I putting up with this? she thought, spinning out of range before he could latch onto her hips. I’m Supergirl. I’m Supergirl.

Closing her eyes as she exhaled Kara tried to shake off the increasing swell of painful memories. I’m Supergirl, I’m Supergirl, she kept chanting, desperate to escape the deluge. I’m Supergirl! But it was already too late, the warmth of Femke’s hovering breath had already rekindled flashes of her quivering lips; casting her back to the moment when she, before the glare of the cameras, dropped to her knees and proclaimed another woman to be her master.

Through the limited, fuzzy edges of perception that she retained, Kara began, once again, to see the outlines of her conqueror’s fists raining down—recalling how easily she had bleed after only a few blows. Her cheeks swelling, taking on a puffy blue hue as she begged. But no matter how loud the plea, her foe refused to relent. Only once her drooling chin had slumped against her heaving chest, was she finally lowered, dropped, like garbage, toward the floor.

In that moment, saddled between her conqueror’s muscular legs, she had stopped being a hero.

And it wasn’t because she lay in the dirt, face swelling and bleeding. It was because…deep down, some part of her had enjoyed being overpowered. In the words of her conqueror, she had “secretly desired it.” At least, that’s what she had been repeatedly told as she was publicly stripped of her costume.

How could I, thought Kara, holding back tears as she aimlessly stumbled. I fought back. I resisted. I…I tried. “NNNNNOOOOO!” she screamed, slamming her palms against the mirrored wall in a burst of frustration. “I am Supergirl! I am Supergirl!” she repeatedly blurted, gulping for breath as she gazed, in confusion, unable to recognize her reflection.

“Oh, sweetheart, you really are delusional,” said Femke. “Take it from someone who has seen the real deal up close—you’re no Girl of Steel.” Even as she continued to take in Kara’s long and lean figure, Femke couldn’t help but laugh. The smirk on her face oozing contempt. “Sure, you’ve got model-like curves…but you’re also soft. A skinny-fat twig that clearly lacks discipline. You have almost no tone beneath that silky-smooth skin. But we can take care of that, can’t we Juicy?

“You betcha! Give me six weeks and I’ll elevate those glutes.”

As the old man spoke, Kara sensed the smooth, grey fabric of her leggings shift…straining to contain her bum. The sudden swell in her lower heft, instantly dialing up the pressure on her waistline. Grunting from the sharpening squeeze, the mirror began to capture her panting breath. The hazed reflection causing her to pull away, cradling her forehead—unsure whether the slick gloss coating her sunken cheeks was perspiration or…or….

With her arm shooting out, attempting to re-establish contact with the mirrored wall, Kara struggled to break free of the shame-filled memories. Reeling from the pain, her constant groaning was causing her to teeter. I can’t…I can’t, she thought, with a shake of her head, fingers clawing back while her flat stomach visibly strained as she struggled to regain control of her mind.

“Oh baby,” yelled Juicy, hips swirling. “That’s my rhythm. I told you this one had spirit.”

What’s happening to me? thought Kara. The growing girth in her bum throwing of her equilibrium, causing her to wobble as she craned her neck, attempting to glance back at her sagging rump. But despite Juicy’s and Femke’s laughter, Kara managed to retain her footing. Why am I letting them control me? As her breathing calmed and her balance steadied, Kara no longer felt the roiling in her belly. It’s all in my head, she realized, relieved to see that her bum wasn’t actually expanding.

Remembering all she had already overcome – from the destruction of Krypton and the loss of her parents to the countless battles fought and won defending the Earth – Kara’s crippling doubts started to fade. Encouraged by her growing resolve, she wasn’t about to let Femke, this twisted old man or anyone else in this sleezy gym, for that matter, define her. No way, not after everything I’ve endured. I could bring this place down with a single breath. So why am I pretending? All I have to do, she thought, shifting her hand toward the device on her wrist, is deactivate the suppressors and then we’ll see who’s laughing.

But as she prepared to tap her smartwatch – switching off the kryptonite-infused devices blocking her superpowered abilities – she suddenly lost control of her hand. A look of horror sweeping her face as Femke gripped her wrist before she could touch the screen. With a yelp, Kara attempted to resist.

However, before she could fully react, air exploded from her lungs as she was forced back—head slamming against the wall, temporarily blurring her vision. “Let me go! Let me go!” protested Kara as Femke quickly gained control of her other wrist. Her slender frame, despite her frantic efforts, shrinking beneath her rival’s painful hold.

Clearly, her spandex-clad foe was enjoying every twist and turn as she forced Kara’s hands back and triumphantly declared, “I know who you are.” Her grin growing as she locked the younger girl’s squirming hands above her head. A second later, Femke’s vaulted chest once again, came plowing down into Kara’s. The V-shaped parting in her black-and-yellow stripped bodysuit still threatening to unleash her nipples.

Kara, with disgust, turned. Grunting out in pain, as her foe’s massive breasts made it abundantly clear which of the two remained the junior partner. Femke’s larger, denser tits easily slapping around Kara’s. And as they did, the mashing of sweat-lathered skin released an audible smack into the air. Even before Femke could speak, Kara had begun bracing for the inevitable taunt: “You’re no Supergirl.”

“For one,” Femke resumed, pausing only to recapture Kara’s hate-filled gaze, “she wore her costume…it never wore her.” It was only at that moment, as Femke gazed up, that Kara realized where she was being held. Her sense of humiliation intensifying, as she caught sight of the Supergirl poster above.

As if being overpowered by Femke’s bulging biceps wasn’t enough, the banner – the same one she had encountered upon first entering this hellish gym – was an even starker reminder of just how far she had truly fallen. Her sleek muscularity, now lost, evident even beneath her fabled blue, red and yellow costume, showcasing Supergirl at her most stunning, instantly filling Kara with shame over the current state of her body.

A weakness that Femke, unwittingly, continued to exploit. “You see, say what you will about the Girl of Steel, at least her costume never bit into her tities. Unlike you my dear, no wonder I couldn’t feel those flabby sacks; they lack substance. We both know that that bra is doing all the lifting. That’s what happens when you stuff your mouth with sugary snacks.” Femke’s words, stung as much as any punch from her conqueror.

And, as she spoke, Kara could feel the woman’s eyes sweeping across her now softer, far less toned body in judgment—instantly increasing the squeeze of her leggings. “I mean, look at you,” huffed Femke, “You’re one tiramisu away from losing that perfect hip-to-waist ratio.”

With renewed vigor, Kara - eyes red, obviously crying - shot back: “Shut up. You know nothing about me.”

With ease and a burst of accompanying laughter, Femke fended off the girl’s surging anger. “That’s it, activate that core” the muscular blonde coaxed, pursing her lips and feigning a kiss. “At least now you’re starting to burn off all those cream-filled calories.”

Wilting under the oppressive weight of her opponent’s chiseled veneer, Kara felt humiliated and disappointed in herself. And yet, despite her trembling arms, still restrained above her head, she swore, By Rao, I’ll show her. Tired of feeling miserable she vowed, then and there, to regain her figure, her costume, her title. Whatever it takes.

“So, you do have fight in you,” teased Femke. Her bulging physique springing to life; forcing Kara back. “Good! I was starting to worry that those bouncy titties were nothing but fat and sizzle. There is something beyond sugar flowing through those pasty veins. Still…,” paused Femke, leaning in so that her lips all but touched Kara’s, “…I want you extra sloppy when I put you up on my wall.”