Disclaimer #1: This story is set in a hypothetical parallel world within the pre-Crisis DC Universe, based on a story in Superman #349, and on "Target of the Magic Bullet" in Flash #***, but is not limited by those stories or any other.
Disclaimer #2: Some characters appearing in this story are based on copyrighted characters owned by DC Comics, Inc., Marevel Comics and others. Their use here is not intended to infringe or disparage those copyrights.
Disclaimer #3: This story is not recommended for persons under 18 or the easily offended.
In an easy chair in his laboratory, in an ordinary-looking house on the outskirts of Hub City, Sam Scudder the Mirror Master sat and admired the immense glass bottle that sat against the far wall, and the huddled figure within. Although safely concealed in his private lair, he still wore his orange and green costume, and even his green cowl.
Scudder raised his right hand and flicked the reflective surface of his finger ring. A ray of light reflected from it activated a smoke machine. Green mist issued from the bottle, and the figure within stirred. Clumsily it climbed forth to do his bidding.
Scudder had removed all of the Flash's costume except for part of the cowl, which still covered the upper part of her face. He had refrained from unmasking her, preferring to draw out and savor his triumph. A long, flowing blonde wig had been glued to the cowl; he preferred it to her own tight cap of close-cropped blonde hair. He had dressed her in diaphanous pink harem pants, so sheer they concealed nothing, a tiny red vest that would never have closed around her breasts, and red slippers.
"Your wish is my command, O Master," the mesmerized heroine said, obeying her programming.
The Mirror Master clapped his hands together, delighted.
"Ah, but what is my wish, my lovely genie? What shall I have you do?"
"Whatever you please, Master. I hear and I obey."
"Yes, yes, of course, now and for the rest of your life, but what shall I do with you first? Bend you over the nearest work table and fuck you? But I can do that any time, and I can only do it for the first time just once. No, first I'll exploit your powers. That's what you're really here for.
"But how . . . ."
Scudder snapped his fingers.
"I hear that Hugh Hefner has a collection of photos he wouldn't dare print in his magazine, photos of famous women who could sue him, some of them too smutty to print. Bring me some of them."
He'd been about to add, "Especially any of Daphne Dean," but the Flash was already gone, with a small swirl of air, and returned so quickly the Mirror Master thought she must have encountered some problem until he saw the sheaf of glossy papers in her hand.
Scudder took the photographs eagerly, flipping through them, growing more and more agitated.
"So that's what she looks like in the raw . . . mmm, that's a good one . . . hey, that's Carmen Miranda! But what's so -- Oh my God! She's not wearing . . . !
Scudder's eyes bulged. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He wiped at it for a moment, then glanced up at his slave.
"Bring me the First Lady's panties, still warm from her ass!"
Stopping at a newspaper office to learn where Mrs. Eisenhower would be, the Flash ran over the plains to Gateway City. She was standing on a podium set up between the pillars of the Open Gateway, on the banks of the Long River. With sad irony, the Flash remembered the last time she'd been in Gateway City, and had admired the soaring bronze pillars of the symbolic gateway to the West.
No time for sightseeing now, she thought grimly as she knelt behind the First Lady, lifted her skirt and undid the straps of her garter belt. The Mirror Master's programming allowed her little leeway.
The Flash did, however, apparently have time to redo Mrs. Eisenhower's garters. When she felt a slight breeze around her legs a few hundred milliseconds in the future, she'd be surprised and puzzled by the missing step-ins, but at least her stockings wouldn't fall down. The Flash understood at once the importance of the fact that her programming did contain some room for interpretation.
Dawn Allen was an intelligent woman who thought things through carefully, looking for opportunities in every situation. The powers of the Flash would not have kept her alive through the past three years if she hadn't kept her head, even while embedded in amber or transformed into a living balloon.
Literary agent Peirre-Jules Noire had been one of Hub City's noted eccentrics. He had filled his home with all sorts of strange objects which he claimed had come from parallel worlds. Some were things which could be easily faked, like envelopes with stamps from nonexistant countries or clothes cut to outlandish fashions. But others were harder to explain.
When Noire disappeared mysteriously, Dawn Allen was a rookie forensic scientist assigned to comb his house for clues. She had been intrigued by the device labelled "Cosmic Treadmill", and had violated police protocol by stepping onto it to try a few paces.
Two hours later, according to the treadmill's pedometer, she had run over a thousand miles, her speed still increasing, and twenty pounds had fallen off her formerly plump body. A week after that, her powers still growing, she had appeared in public for the first time as the Flash.
The Flash returned to her master's lab and handed him the drawers. He mopped his brow and looked her up and down.
"Do your titties get sore, running all over creation with no bra, slave?" Scudder asked in mock-sympathy.
He leaned over and cupped her breasts, teasing her nipples with his thumbs.
"No, Master," the Flash replied. "The same control over my body's molecules which allows me to turn corners at speeds faster than sound, and protects my feet from friction, protects my breasts from the effects of my super-speed."
The Mirror Master chuckled.
"That's not how you'd answer if you had control over your voice, is it?"
"Heh. Why not? For the next five minutes, slave, you have my permission to speak freely."
The Flash clasped her hands before her (apparently her unconscious considered gestures to be part of "speaking freely") and leaned close to Scudder.
"Thank you, Sam. I've wanted so much to tell you how much I've been enjoying this."
Scudder's jaw dropped.
"All my life I've dreamed of belonging to a strong, masterful man, a real man who knows what he wants and takes it. That's why I became the Flash in the first place, to tempt and tease powerful men like you into finding a way to master me. The Top, Abra Cadaver, the Elongated Man, none of them were able to do what you have. Only you were able to enslave me. Only you deserved to."
The Flash dropped to her knees, straining her programming (and her stomach) to the limit, looking up imploringly at Scudder.
"Please, Master, let me give myself to you completely. Use me, not as a performing puppet but as a willing, loving slave."
She reached out but had to stop short of touching him.
The Mirror Master looked down at the Flash, astonished but still slightly suspicious.
"You want me to give you freedom of action, do you?"
"Only to serve you more perfectly, Master."
"Very well, but you may not use your speed powers. You are free to give me pleasure, nothing else."
"Oh, thank you, Master," the Flash gushed, lowering her face to the floor and kissing the tips of his green boots.
She kissed her way up his orange tights, then shyly raised her hands to unlatch his belt. It took her a moment to figure out how it worked, but then his tights were worked down and his manhood sprang free. With her fingertips she brushed lightly up and down its length, lowering her head as though suddenly modest, hiding her disgusted expression.
The Flash took the Mirror Master's penis lovingly in one hand, cupping his scrotum with the other. She felt him tremble under her touch
"There is a trick I have learned to do with vibrations that I would love to show you," she said truthfully."
"Yes, yes, go ahead," Scudder moaned.
The Mirror Master had just enough time to see the Flash's hand blur visibly before he doubled over in agony, his testicles vibrating at precisely the frequency she had learned would cause the most exquisite pain to a man. He tried to gasp out a command but was unable to articulate, and a few seconds later he lost consciousness.
The Flash still could not use her speed powers except for vibrating the palms of her hands at the ball-busting frequency. She could move at normal speeds, but only to give him pleasure. Of course, Scudder would still be terribly sore when he awoke, so obviously calling for an ambulance consisted of giving him pleasure. And of course when one calls for an ambulance, it is necessary to give the address and the patient's full name, and title if any. Obviously.
Dawn Allen told herself all this over and over, straining against her programming all the while she was on the phone. It was a great relief to hang up the instrument and go stand at attention before her unconscious master. Now she could wait for the ambulance to arrive, and the police moments after.
It would be embarrassing to have to stand there in her "genie" costume, but she was on good terms with the HCPD, and she didn't think anyone would take advantage of the situation. They'd call in some reliable hypnotist or psychic healer to remove the Mirror Master's controls, and things would be back to normal.
From where she stood, she could see herself in a couple of the many mirrors in the lab. She had to admit she looked good in Scudder's "modified" Flash costume.
She'd keep it. Her boyfriend would get a kick out of it.