The tethered twin-rotor heliovator dropped in the darkness from the silent Airborne Acropolis with its sole occupant: Sheila-X, the Atomic Slut of the Broad Squad. The first part of her mission, the rescue of Sheila-9, her partner Sheila-27, and the Fay that they were escorting, was complete.
The incapacitated agents and their charge were on board being cared for by the best women in medicine. The audio-visual experts were spooling the tapes from Nine’s hidden television camera. The replacement Fay, who Sheila-X herself would escort, had yet to be chosen. The lookouts said there were no monsters in sight.
That meant that Sheila-X had about an hour to temporarily satisfy her hyper-radioactivated libido.
She leaped out of the heliovator and pressed a stud on her wrist radio to launch the car back up to the airship’s spacious gondola, suspended underneath three tremendous blimps. "I’ve touched down and am headed into town,” she transmitted.
“Roger that,” the Acropolis’ comms officer replied and the airship lifted to cruising altitude.
She stayed on the better-lit streets so the radiant pink haze that always surrounded her wouldn’t draw unwanted attention. Looking for a place without too many bystanders, she found a quiet, mostly empty coffee house. Keeping her pheromones in check with a moment’s meditation, she entered.
The place was dark except for the small stage where a guitar and bongos accompanied bad poets. She hurried toward a table near the stage where the lighting would hide her glow and asked for a black coffee.
Almost every man turned to watch her, attracted by her turbocharged pheromones. Sheila-X wanted sex and on some level, every ball-filling cock-swelling man there knew it. If she hadn't needed to be quick and keep a low profile, she would have considered taking on the entire table of likely Korean War vets, probably no older than twenty-three or twenty-four. The bongo player was the best candidate amongst the single men.
X directed her libidinous aura at him, caught his eye, and shyly looked away without looking away. He abandoned the stage and stumbled to her side with an aching erection.
“I would do anything to have you.”
“I know,” she said, touching his face. “I want discretion. Where can we go?”
“The changing room down that hall. I’ll meet you there from the backstage.”
The bongo player dashed away just as the waitress brought X her coffee. She took a sip and handed the girl a five. “Buy a new beret and forget that you ever saw me.” The Slut sauntered to the opened door to find the man presenting his throbbing, hard cock in his palm.
She spit in her hand and stroked him. “Are you sure you want to do this? I'm going to make you cum so hard you won’t be able to get it up again for a year.” She wasn’t exaggerating.
He pawed anxiously at her tight, knee-length black pencil skirt. X pulled it up above her hips, tugged her black-and-white striped tights down, and bent over a table.
Pulsating veins threatened to burst away from the taut surface of his rock-hard cock and he rubbed his tip, percolating with precum, between her hot-honeyed pussy lips. His first jab struck a spark that traversed his shaft and shocked his balls into the safety of his belly.
Sheila-X sighed and quietly moaned at the man’s savage thrusts. With her Broad Squad training, she could cum on demand, or demand when he could cum. This one was good, if not overly eager, and so she let nature dictate her orgasm.
Bongo-man fucked her ever harder, desperate to climax. Right after she allowed her own orgasm, he shot once into her cunt before a slutonium wave slammed him onto the floor where he lay with his cock repeatedly spouting into the void. “You’ll stop in a minute or two. Thanks for the fuck.” She squeezed out a glop of pink-glowing semen which sizzled on the floor until it was no more than a smoldering stain.
That orgasmic wave and the several that followed had also penetrated the walls and the rest of the men within range where they, to their wonder, unexpectedly ejaculated as well.
She pulled her tights up, left, and shouted into her wrist radio while running to the drop-off point.
~~~
Before Sheila-X, The Atomic Slut, there was a woman with a Valium habit and a fiancé who suddenly disappeared. “The Program,” she was told, would help her to cope with what they described as hysteria. The men that approached her had badges and dressed like any Federal agent on the television, only they weren’t from any government entity.
The Program was concocted by a cabal of appliance, cosmetic, and apparel manufacturers intending to create the ultimate ultra-feminine consumers: women who would spread their legs on demand and spend their husband’s paychecks. The men who conceived the project easily obtained the needed hundreds of thousands of dollars of funding.
“Every nation in the world is too busy fighting monsters,” the cabal was reminded. “Nobody will pay any attention to what we’re doing until it’s too late.”
The world was indeed fighting monsters. Gojira stomped Tokyo four years ago, in 1954. Top Minds debated as to whether the monster that the West dubbed Godzilla was awakened by nuclear test blasts or if those blasts’ radioactivity mutated some innocuous creature back into a prehistoric state. The consensus was that it couldn’t happen again, and so the saber-rattling atomic tests continued.
Most of the new California Island’s taller structures crumbled after the accidental explosion of the San Andreas bomb. Then, Los Angeles was stomped by its own giant amphibian, which was simply referred to as “The Beast,” not long after.
The woman who was designated as “X” grasped the back of her hospital gown while walking with a group of men wearing starched white lab coats or expensive black suits.
The room was stuffed with the blinking lights, clacking sounds, and reeling tapes of several computer banks, each performing almost a thousand calculations per second. Four operators sat in front of a console with hundreds of lighted switches. In the middle of the room was a six-foot upright steel platform with a huge, uncomfortably close columnar device aimed at it.
The twenty-foot glass Wenmore-Kestinghouse Fem-a-tron hung from a high ceiling with hundreds of wires leading to the console and the computers. A low base hum and the flashing lights from several torus rings that lined its twitching shaft meant that the device was turned on.
“Please disrobe,” they told her. When she hesitated out of modesty, they assured her that their sunglasses prevented them from seeing her in a state of undress. The lab-coated men strapped her to the platform without apologizing for how cold it was and tipped it back at a forty-five-degree angle with her feet in the stirrups.
From there, she noticed a picture of then-Vice President Nixon on the wall and thought it odd that there wasn’t one of President Eisenhower. Of course, not long after, Nixon did become president after Eisenhower’s assassination.
A ball gag was placed into her mouth. She closed her eyes and held her breath as they smeared her vaginal opening with jelly and inserted a long white tube. “Test the beam focuser,” someone with a clipboard said, and test subject X squeaked a muffled exclamation when it vibrated.
A technician opened the twin spherical chambers at the base of the Fem-a-tron and used tongs to carefully hang sacks of refined slutonium, the radioactive material that made the Fem-a-tron possible.
The lab coat with the clipboard nodded at a black suit who nodded in return.
“Commence slutification!”
The humming got louder and the rings’ lights flashed from white to pink, lingering pinker after each iteration. The shaft repeatedly drew back and thrust forward with increasing speed as it drove the crackling magnetic moment of the slutonium radiation.
At first, the sympathetic vibrations of the beam focuser that was wedged between her legs led X to believe that this would not be an unpleasant process. Then an overhead light swung to red and a klaxon sounded.
“What’s the problem?” a suit asked.
“The pressure is building too fast.”
The Fem-a-tron's shaft thrust faster and more lights stayed pink.
“Slow it down!”
“I can’t! It’s too close!”
“Redirect resources!”
“It’s drawing power faster than we can subvert.”
“It’s off target!”
The whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of the shaft wobbling between the rings got louder and faster.
“Re-aim!”
“I’m trying!”
The first premature ejection of slutonium plasma from the bulbous tip struck the woman squarely on her face, followed by two more on her chest as a technician physically grabbed hold of the Fem-a-tron's pulsating shaft to jerk it into place. He was shocked loose when a blast of the feminizing particles enveloped him which, to everyone’s amazement, didn’t make him any less of a man.
“We’re on target!”
A beam of pure slutonium radiation struck the focuser and the woman screamed through her gag as bones vibrated apart and instantly reset themselves. Her legs lengthened and her hips widened. Pain was replaced by discomfort as her breasts swelled and lifted from her chest with pert nipples that followed you across the room. Her rump rounded and a four-pack formed at her newly waspish waist.
Discomfort was replaced by pleasure. The woman moaned and shifted herself to get the beam to hit her just right. “Yesh!” she slurred as saliva dripped from her open mouth and evaporated in the steamy pink haze that was swaddling her.
“What’s she doing?” one of the clueless men asked.
She thrust her hips to meet the beam head-on, moaning as it penetrated her, causing a feedback wave. Watching her skin glow quite literally through the radioactive slutonium haze almost distracted the men from their growing erections.
Her climax set the haze ablaze and she emitted her own violent slutonium wave, shattering the device and making every man there cum in his pants. Too weak to stop her, they could only watch helplessly as she freed herself and fled.
“It’s not my fault that the machine erupted so quickly,” the clipboard-man said. “It happens to a lot of scientists.”
Several undergarment manufacturers withdrew their support from the cabal’s project. “Women who look like that will only drive us out of business!”
Once the Broad Squad heard the news about a woman who glowed in the dark and left a trail of impotent cum-pliant men behind, they recruited, nurtured, and trained her to become Sheila-X, the Atomic Slut!
~~~
Sheila-X returned to the investigation of Sheila-9's downfall, rewatching with disbelief the television tape that Nine’s camera recorded.
“Sheila-9 had been trained by the best,” X noted, “and yet even she was overwhelmed by his distilled masculinity. Is Sheila-27 on this recording?”
“Wait and watch.”
The original plan was for the Broad Squad to double-team this reputed Soviet menace known as the Red Rogue. The Fay that she was guarding, Fay-Twelve, was found as a quivering mess, begging to be fucked again. Nine’s partner, Sheila-27, was not in the view of the camera. “Nine had no choice but to take him one-on-one,” the captain said.
Fucking a man down was Sheila-9's specialty. She wasted no time and tugged at the hidden strands that made her skin-tight Fiber-K bodysuit fall away and compact itself into her wristband. The super clingy, super stretchy fabric and her futuristic silicone breast implants had been custom-designed just for the Squad.
As she stood there wearing nothing but Fiber-K thigh-hugging boots, matching fingerless arm-length gloves, and glistening pubes, she watched as his own formfitting outfit was sucked into a similar band.
“He’s gorgeous,” somebody said.
And familiar, X thought.
They watched Nine scrutinize her masked opponent from his broad shoulders to his tapered waist to his small, round glutes. His muscles were defined, and his skin was flawless and mostly hairless.
The Broads’ eyes tried to take all of him in but his cock demanded the most attention. It lifted and wove like a large snake that was ready to strike; they half-expected it to hiss at Sheila-9.
“He’s a mutant,” the Atomic Slut said under her breath. Like me.
“I don’t care how good you smell or how impressive your cock is, I’m going to fuck you into oblivion and take you in!” Sheila-9 was heard on the tape.
Normally, those wouldn’t have been empty words. The original Broad Squad was a collection of women FBI agents who Hoover fired in the nineteen-forties. They were scooped up by another clandestine government organization until they went rogue and a wealthy benefactor known as “HGB” funded them.
Their abilities went beyond elementary seduction and garnering information from pillow to pillow. Their bodies and minds were sexual weapons. While the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, the way to his mind and soul was through his cock. Controlling one head controlled the other.
Sheila-9 taunted him on all fours, wriggled her butt, and with a sultry voice said, “Come and get it, tiger!” He was on her and in her with a single pounce, pounding her pussy from behind. An involuntary moan escaped her throat as his strong, sinewy cock slithered in and out of her muscular cunt.
