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Creative Writing: The Vigilante

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This was not what fighting crime was supposed to be like. The young vigilante was skilled enough to beat three of this man’s thugs, but she had vastly underestimated the sheer manpower at his disposal, and it had cost her immensely. Now, her head was swimming, her body was aching, and she was at the whim of a man who had likely repeated crimes of the worst variety. And of course, that was to say nothing of his lackeys that now encircled her, jeering and insulting the leggy blonde below them. While the man who had defeated her monologue and ridiculed her, she took the opportunity to gather her courage and regain her senses. If she was to die, she would do so with a brave face, and if something worse was to occur, she would not give them the …show more content…

As the man approached her and brought the switchblade against her top, she knew that she was not going to leave the encounter with any semblance of innocence. Indeed, just as she expected, her breasts were soon bared to the world, a sight accompanied by lustful jeers and ample gawking, a development that wavered her undying confidence the slightest bit. Of course, before she could react, she was once again grabbed, her struggling stopped by the ominous prod that was held by one of the numerous thugs. As she was brought to the hood of an old car, she spied the tools that would be employed on her, and sneered. She also managed to spy the cameras that were trained on her, capturing every moment of her fall from grace. Soon, her arms were pinned against the hood, and despite her furious writhing, they were bound opposite each other. With a defiant glare at no one in particular and a burst of desperate of adrenaline, she screamed out “Fuck you, you’ll fucking pay!” and began to kick and writhe against her bonds with a fury, threatening to break free of the rather amateur …show more content…

With relative ease, the fallen vigilante felt her legs parted and splayed across the hood, then tied firmly down to stop any serious attempt of escape. Crystal, who felt a whole lot like more like Baillie Anderson, was now immobilized and displayed, like a trophy. Her breasts, which were ample for her body type, were on full display for the thugs, and the last vestige of her dignity, the tight shorts of her outfit, were surely the next item on the list of her deflowering. She wondered if her mask would be removed, revealing her identity to her captors, a thought that scared her nearly as much as her imminent fate. However, as it stood, she was left to glare at her captors as they eagerly awaited the go-ahead. It was clear they respected or feared their employer, and they were quite intent on making sure they had his permission to deflower their newest prize. Crystal could only hopelessly struggle and glare, yelling out a futile retort to his loony preach “True power is not having your way with a defeated foe, but you’ll learn that lesson when they catch you, I imagine” she replied, her tone now dripping elitist supremacy, a tone that would no doubt drive such a proud villain

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