Madam Fitting

*Wiuuu-wiuuu-wiuuu

The sudden wail of the siren made the girl sleeping quietly on the bed flinch slightly as she woke up — not out of fear, but more from a feeling that resembled a burst of irritation.

— Fuck... no, fuck this... do you even know what time it is? — she muttered under her breath, muffled, through clenched teeth, cracking one eye open and already feeling her whole body squeezed into that red, tight, almost skin-fused bodysuit with those fucking pink leggings — the one that, somehow, always showed up on her every time she woke up.

She slowly turned her head toward the window, immediately feeling that heavy, pressing weight on her chest and the sway of those two useless, always-in-the-way, heavy yet inseparable parts of the sexy superhero image. She groaned. Low, deep, almost animalistic — but still in a woman’s voice. It wasn’t a groan of pain — more like a groan of surrender to yet another humiliation.

— Bitches… I was sleeping… — she said, scrunching up her displeased face and rubbing her forehead with those small, feminine palms, smooth soft skin and such thin little fingers — they only looked fragile, when in reality they could punch through a concrete wall with ease.

The siren still kept howling inside her head, though the room — and even the street — was dead silent. Yet it didn’t seem to surprise her one bit. She clenched her fists slightly and, in the next moment, as if winking — something clicked inside her. No sound — just a switch flipping. Like changing the radio station.

— ‘…minimum of six in the building. Two with assault rifles, one holding a hostage by the window…’

click

— ‘…God, please save me, please don’t let them hurt my daughter…’

click

— ‘…What’s going on? Why are there so many cops…’

— Oh for fuck’s sake! Shut the fuck up already! — suddenly rising from the bed and feeling her tits bounce in that goddamn skintight bodysuit, Madam Fitting growled — quietly, viciously, more from the inside than aloud. The fabric stretched in several places at once: her breasts seemed like they were about to break free, nipples painfully tense and stuck to the synthetic material, and between her legs, under the stretched fabric, everything pressed in so tight it felt like someone had designed it on purpose — to remind her every damn second that there was nothing male left down there. Not even a fold. It was all different now, and she felt it. Always felt it.

— Well, fuckin’ great, she’s awake now… — she muttered through her teeth, stepping barefoot onto the cold floorboards. Her hair — long, reddish-gold, smelling like some vanilla-shampoo mix — softly fell into her face. And, of course, she immediately caught a strand with her long nails, yanked it back with an irritated tug, stopping halfway to the fridge to grab a beer.

— Nooo… nooo fuck no! — she hissed through her teeth, feeling it rise again inside — that sensation, or more precisely — that urge, growing stronger and stronger. To break free. To leap. To save. Again.

— What the fuck is this obsession?! — She tensed her whole body, fingers cramping from the pressure. The desire was vile, sticky, like a hairball stuck in her throat — and at the same time, all-consuming. Pulsating between her legs, right in the center of her new anatomy. As if her pussy itself wanted to jump into the fight first.

Morgan Smith, 48 years old, twice divorced, beer gut from hell and leftover pasta in his beard — was now her. Madam Fitting. And every damn time something happened in the city that needed her involvement, she showed up — Madam Fitting. The lady in red. Super strength, grace, D-cup boobs, and the urge… to save. Always to save. Even if no one fucking asked her to.

A month ago, if he had the chance, Morgan would've chosen anything else instead of crawling into that sewer. Seemed like just another job — unclog some fresh shit — but down there he found that weird cylinder, which felt like it had been waiting just for Morgan for hundreds, maybe even thousands of years. Because the moment Morgan touched it, the cylinder lit up with a blue glow, and a second later, after a quick body scan, it spoke in a mechanical voice:

— “Protocol 2454 activated. Subject scan complete. Hero image generated.”

And while Morgan was still trying to figure out what the fuck was going on, he didn’t even notice that he was already standing there — in a latex suit, long feminine hair, and a set of size 3 tits spilling out of a V-shaped neckline.

— “Hero image generated in accordance with optimal visual impact model for mass perception, adjusted for subject parameters. Name: Madam Fitting. Basic defender ability set — active. Adaptive cultural ability package — active.”

She took a step toward the window, and every single millimeter of that fucking latex on her body seemed to moan. The fabric stretched tight between her ass cheeks, riding up into folds that didn’t even exist before. And every single movement of her boobs came with another wave of humiliation. Months had passed, and she still couldn’t fully come to terms with any of it. Especially this so-called heroic urge that now forced her, instead of grabbing breakfast or taking a shower, to lean forward slightly and lunge toward the window where she would already be—no! Stop!

She froze, just inches from the frame.

— No. Fuck no. Not again. — she was breathing hard, shaking from anger... or worse, from that stupid, inevitable arousal at the thought of another “heroic” leap. Her tits — like two fucking kettlebells — bounced, as if teasing her: come on, bitch, jump, it’s fun, you’re all strong and badass now, right? She squeezed her eyes shut. Her face twisted in inner conflict.

Her hand, trembling slightly and barely restrained by sheer will, reached for the window frame.

— Easy... Easy now... No sudden moves... I’m not fixing this fucking glass again... — she whispered to herself, accidentally switching the channel on her internal radio as she grimaced, and right then, hearing a child crying in her head, she snapped.

‘…Mommy, he’s scary… I wanna go home…’

— FUUUUUUUUUCK!!! — slamming her elbow through the glass and frame, she burst outside, leaving behind a scatter of shards that flew apart in slow motion, like in some dumbass superhero movie, while she turned mid-air, watching them and already picturing herself fixing that damn frame again..

Her hair twisted in the wind, her breasts — heavy, swollen, nipples sticking and glued to the inside of the suit — bounced down, then up, then down again, creating that humiliating jump effect, where yeah, sure, you’re this powerful superheroine, but you feel like a silicone fuckdoll in a porn ad. Especially when those pink leggings ride so deep into your ass it feels like they’re about to rip apart.

— I FUCKING HATE YOU, YOU CYLINDER BITCH! — she screamed into the sky, shouting at that same ancient techno-thing that once decided he, Morgan fucking Smith, should become the sexy avatar of justice.

— You couldn’t at least make it a tracksuit, huh? HUH?! No, of course not, fuck no — only latex, only erotica, only D-cup tits and lips like some bitch in a burger commercial!

She flew above the rooftops. Instinctively — always instinctively — her body led her straight to the source of the distress. Somewhere at the intersection of 5th and 6th Street, someone was holding hostages — she knew it.

Inside her, the radio clicked on again:

— ‘Look! It’s her! It’s HER!!’

— ‘Damn, I wish she’d arrest me… without the cuffs…’

— ‘Whoa, check out that flight! And look at those tits!’

Madam Fitting grimaced.

— Go fuck yourself… — she hissed, sharply gaining altitude, shooting between two buildings and nearly smacking her boobs against the edge of a billboard, which ironically read: “You can be a hero!” She just snorted — yeah, fuckin’ right, especially when you’ve got a pussy instead of balls and every damn jump feels like softcore porn on a breeze.

Down below — the stares. Always the stares. Male — greedy, mouths half-open. Female — a mix of jealousy, disbelief, and something like well, at least she’ll save us, I guess. But all of them — ALL of them — saw not a savior, but some glossy, sexual fantasy.

The latex on her sparkled, her boobs still moving like some separate living entity, bouncing in rhythm with every gust of air.

The building — an old school, repurposed as an admin archive. Windows boarded up, two guys with rifles on the roof. One smoking. The other talking into a radio, not even noticing the flash of crimson shadow sweeping above him.

— Still can’t believe these are MY tits — she breathed out, dropping from the roof onto a balcony and pressing herself against the wall. — And this is MY ass rubbing against fucking bricks. Yep. Life upgrade, fuckin’ hell.

click

— ‘…yeah, I see her. She’s here. Shit, she’s real. Madam Fi… Fisting…’ — the terrorist’s voice in the radio, shaking. Her name always had an effect — the wrong one.

— It’s FITTING, you fuckwad! — she burst inside, kicked the door off its hinges, and before she even had time to think, her body was already spinning, her tits slicing through the air, and her hand — with its polished nail — smashing straight into the guy’s jaw. He flew like in a damn movie.

A camera in the corner blinked red.

— Recording. Of course, fuckin’ course — she muttered. — Can’t wait for the slow-mo replay on TikTok: “Madam Fitting serves it again!”

Hostages — seven people. A woman and child cowering on the floor. A man with a knife turning around. She walks toward him slowly, hips swaying, gaze heavy, voice — sweet, sticky, the kind she never used in her past life:

— Come on, baby… make a move — then, under her breath — so I can smash your ass into that printer.

He moves, of course.

And three seconds later, he’s embedded in the wall.

— All... clear... — she exhales, feeling sweat pooling between her boobs, running down under the latex. Inside — still pulsing. Not from fear. From that dumb, post-fight arousal. Adrenaline, hormones, and this new biology of hers, reacting in ways it never fucking should have.

A kid nearby looks at her in awe. The woman whispers thank you.

And she just stands there — sweaty, sticky, with her tits practically spilling out of a bodysuit that’s one breath away from a wardrobe malfunction — striking the exact pose she used to see only on the covers of cheap comics and erotic fanart in her old life: one leg slightly forward, hip popped, spine arched, tits pushing forward like they were about to rip through that fucking suit.

— Just fucking great… — she whispered, realizing the camera flashes had already started, while she was still forcing herself to smile. — Just like some goddamn whore again…

One cop smirked and whispered something to another, pointing at her back. And the only thing Madam Fitting could push out at that moment was a heavy, worn-out, despair-soaked:

— I should’ve just died in that sewer — she whispered, not breaking eye contact with the lens — would’ve been less fucking humiliating.