The Kitten Sisters Blow Up Dick Tracy

by PlastiClown

Email Feedback | Forum Feedback

© Copyright 2016 - PlastiClown - Used by permission

Storycodes: F+/f; F+/m; captive; drug; majick; transform; inflatable; doll; plasticwear; tease; torment; enslave; stuck; prisoner; objectify; used; cons/nc; X


How can someone become an inflated slavedoll for a plastic witch? What could compel a man to put on a girl's plastic shower cap in order to become an inflated plastic punching bag bouncing gaily for his captors? Someone found out.

Inga Yelma was missing. That fact in itself would not have drawn Dick Tracy's interest. But there were hints that something more sinister was at play.

The information had come from Joe Cullun, crime reporter for the City Press. He had been making the report to Officer Lizz Worthington, saying that Miss Yelma had contacted him, saying that she had a horrifying story for him. "She said that she was scheduled to compete in the Women's Ski-Jumping Championship Meet at Indian Head," he said, "and that she wanted to meet me the next day to give me the scoop. It sounded like she was about to tell me more, but then I heard her say 'Oh!", as if she had been startled, and she hung up. And she never showed up for the meeting."

"Do you know where she was calling from?" Lizz asked.

"I thought it was the ski resort at Indian Head, because she was supposed to be there at that time and I thought I heard crowd noise in the background," Joe said, "but now I'm not so sure."

"Well, that explains her startled response and her hanging up on you," Lizz said. "She saw that she was running late for the competition and she had to hurry to get there in time."

"But she didn't get there," Joe said. "She didn't compete. She didn't show up at all." He noticed Sam Catchem, Tracy's partner, listening in. "Hey, Freckle-Face," he said.

"When did you take up sportswriting?" Sam asked.

"I didn't," Joe said. "I'm still on the crime beat. But I've got an athlete who tells me she's got a horror story for me and then she disappears. Poof! Without a trace."

"There's always a trace," Dick Tracy said as he joined the group. He had noticed the little conference, joined it, and was quickly filled in on what Joe had said.

"OK," Joe said, "where do we start? I couldn't find any family and no one I talked to at Indian Head knew of any friends or acquaintances."

"Talk to your sports guy," Tracy said, "and see if he knows anyone who might have been following her career. They might know someone informative." To Sam he said, "Let's take a drive up to Indian Head and check out those pay phones."

Several hours later Sam and Tracy sat in Tracy's car in the parking lot of the Indian Head ski resort. They had noticed the three phone booths lined up along the wide entry walk, across from a large concession stand. People in small groups were coming to and from the resort, where the ski meet was continuing. In the distance a chair lift carried people to the top of the hill on whose opposite side the ski jump had been built. Getting out of the car, the two men walked over to the concession stand, identified themselves as police officers, and asked the attendant if he remembered anything unusual happening around the phone booths at a certain time two days previously.

"No, nothing," the man said with a shake of his head. "Well, except for the drunk."

"The drunk?" Tracy prompted.

"Yeah," the man said. "Some woman was making a call in that middle phone booth. Her friend joined her just in time to catch her, 'cause she was staggering drunk. Man, that was one stewed tomato! Anyway, her friend helped her get into their car and drove off."

"What kind of car was it?" Sam asked.

"All I know is it was a station wagon," the man said apologetically. "I'm not a car guy, so I couldn't tell you make, model, or year."

Tracy thanked the man for his information and then he and Sam walked over to the phone booths.

"You think the drunk is our girl?" Sam asked.

"The place and the time are right," Tracy said. He made an overall examination of the middle phone booth. Then he started examining the booth's interior, beginning with the floor. "Ah, what's this?" he said as he held up part of the vane of a feather.

"A little late in the season for birds to be molting, isn't it?" Sam commented.

Tracy held up the vane and pointed to where it had joined the feather's shaft. "That looks like glue," he said.

"Fletching?!" Sam said as he pulled a small evidence bag from his pocket. Tracy slid the vane into the bag and Sam sealed it, folded it, and slipped into the inner pocket of his coat. "Wouldn't an arrow be rather obvious?" he asked.

"Not an arrow, then," Tracy said. "Something smaller. Like a dart? Such as from a blowgun?"

Sam snapped his fingers. "A tranquilizer dart!" he said. "Fired from an air pistol. At short range it would be accurate enough."

"And being jabbed by the dart would explain the startled reaction Joe heard over the phone," Tracy said. "Once the drug took effect the victim would appear to be staggering drunk."

"So we have our Method and Opportunity," Sam said. "So what's our Motive? A rival, perhaps?"

"Then what was the horrifying story she had for Joe?" Tracy asked as he led the way back to his car. "Let's see what Joe and Lizz have found out."

Back at police headquarters Tracy and Sam sat in a small conference room with Lizz and Joe.

"It's pretty sparse," Joe was saying. "My sports guy knows someone who's been following Miss Yelma's career and he didn't have much to tell me. Basically she started out as part of a gymnastics act called The Kitten Sisters, then she split off the act to pursue a career in skiing. Apparently the parting was amiable. The only sour note I got was a rumor that the women were practicing witchcraft. Hah! In this day and age?! Witchcraft?! Wow!"

"The Registrar was able to give me an address for Miss Yelma," Lizz added, "actually two of them. The older one is 18 Poppledeck Avenue and the newer one is 46 Gardenview Court."

Tracy pulled the Hagstrom atlas off the bookshelf and consulted it. "Those addresses are about two miles from each other. OK, Lizz, you go see what the Assessor has on those properties. Joe, see if your sports guy can come up with any names of associates or people Miss Yelma might have had dealing with and the same for The Kitten Sisters. Sam, you go back to Indian Head and see if Miss Yelma left any belongings and check them out. I'm going to visit those two addresses and talk to the residents and the neighbors."

"Hey, Tracy," Sam said with a laugh as he got up to leave, "if you see a couple of broomsticks parked out front, give me a call on the two-way."

Tracy chuckled as he put the Hagstrom atlas back on the shelf. "Don't get your hopes up, Buster!"

Later Tracy might have wished that there had been broomsticks to give him warning. He went to the Poppledeck address first. The two-storey house, barely visible from the street, was a converted barn. The original house, little more than a cabin, had been converted into a garage and storage shed. Had Tracy seen the station wagon parked in the garage, he might have been more wary.

The fit young woman who answered his knock at the door wore her blond hair in a shag style. She was wearing a black catsuit and her Happy Homekeeper™ apron, a big, fat, ruffle-skirted kitchen apron made of pale, transparent-yellow plastic on which dark-blue line drawing of butterflies had been printed. Soft as a silk scarf and as smooth as a young woman's skin, the apron's wide, ankle-length skirt swirled suggestively around the woman's legs. The softness, sheen, and transparency of the plastic made it seem warm, though that was certainly an illusion.

Introducing herself as Miki, the woman invited Tracy into the house. The living room and the kitchen/dining area it segued into took up the front third of the first floor. The rear two thirds was devoted to a well-equipped gymnasium where The Kitten Sisters trained and included the utility room. Upstairs were the women's bedrooms and bathrooms, though Tracy thought it was an awful lot of room for three women.

Miki told Tracy that she and her partners had spoken to Inga a few weeks earlier, but hadn't seen her since. The four women, she confirmed, had once been partners in a gymnastics act, but Inga had developed a yearning to take up skiing. A distracted gymnast is not good for an act that requires precision moves, so the women all agreed that Inga should separate from the group to pursue her dream of skiing professionally. Miki couldn't tell Tracy any more, so he took his leave.

As he was approaching his car he heard a sound like someone spitting coming from behind him and he felt something jab his left buttock. He looked down and saw a dart stuck in him. An odd sense of bemusement swept over him as he looked up and saw a young woman in a parka and ski pants standing by the rainbarrel behind which she had been crouching. She held an air pistol in her left hand and Tracy knew that he now had the solution of the case in hand. Now all he had to do was... wait for something, he wasn't sure what.

The woman approached him and pulled the dart out of him. "Come with me!" she said.

Well, chief detective Dick Tracy certainly wasn't going to take orders from a kidnaping suspect, so... he went with her back into the house. Horrified, he tried to resist, he tried to go back to his car, he tried to use his two-way wrist radio, he tried to reach his gun, but he only succeeded in fulfilling her every command.

Back inside the house he moved a chair to face the sofa and sat down in it. A third woman, also wearing a black catsuit, came into the room from the gym. From the women's conversation he inferred that the woman who had darted him was called Fifi and the third woman was Jeri. Together the women sat on the sofa and interrogated him. He couldn't stop himself from answering their questions, so in short order they knew everything about the investigation into Inga Yelma's disappearance.

"Better give him another dose of zombamine," Fifi said as she and Jeri prepared to leave. Fifi was going to drive Tracy's car to Inga's house and leave it in the driveway and Jeri was going to bring her home in the station wagon. Later, if questioned, the women could claim that they had talked to Tracy and that he had left. The cops would assume that Tracy had been taken by the same unknown person or persons who had kidnaped Inga. Yes, it was a perfect plan.

After Fifi and Jeri left, Miki brought a hypodermic syringe and injected a purple fluid in Tracy's arm. Now Tracy's mind was completely a passenger in his own body. He looked at himself following Miki's commands as if he were watching someone else and feeling not the slightest anxiety over that fact. Helplessly he went with Miki into the women's gym and watched as she folded back a false wall that looked like an extension of the utility room wall. In the space thus revealed he saw three cages set along the building's rear wall, one of them occupied by a naked young woman, Inga Yelma.

Miki commanded him to take off all of his clothes and put them into a laundry basket. When he had complied she directed him into the cage next to Inga's and locked the door. Taking the laundry basket, she left and Tracy sat on the cot in his cage and stared out at the gym.

He wasn't a total zombie, he discovered. He still had his detective's curiosity, so he noticed the strange pattern embroidered into the carpet in front of the cages. It looked a little like a Navajo sand painting, but the themes in the imagery looked more Egyptian. He assumed that it was the symbol of some organization and tried to decipher it. It would turn out to be something much more disturbing.

That evening all three of The Kitten Sisters came into the gym bringing food and water for Inga and Tracy. All three were wearing black catsuits and their Happy Homekeeper™ aprons. Fifi's apron was made of transparent-teal plastic that had yellow line drawings of butterflies printed on it and Jeri's apron was made of transparent-mint plastic with red-orange butterflies. The women gave Inga and Tracy their food and water and emptied the bucket in Inga's cage. Then they turned out the lights and left for the night.

Several days went by and Inga was starting to look more zaftig, only somewhat less than pudgy. On the third day of Tracy's captivity The Kitten Sisters came into the gym wearing their black catsuits and their aprons. Fifi was carrying a case of the kind used to carry flutes and Miki was carrying a small laundry bag.

Jeri led Inga out of her cage and into a small alcove that contained a shower, a toilet, and a sink with a medicine cabinet over it. There she commanded Inga to bathe herself. Then she joined Fifi and Miki in performing a set of calisthenics, which, at one point, involved the three women standing side by side, clasping hands, and high-kicking their aprons like can-can girls. Aside from that, they weren't doing anything too vigorous.

Inga finished bathing, dried herself, and went to sit in one of the chairs set against the wall opposite the bathroom. The Kitten Sisters took a break from their calisthenics while Jeri went to Inga and opened a small round case on the table next to her. From the case she took a hairdryer and plugged it into a wall socket while Inga put on the bonnet. Jeri turned the device on and the translucent-white plastic of the bonnet, with its tiny rosebuds printed on it in red and green, puffed out. After spending a minute whispering something to Inga, Jeri rejoined her partners and they resumed their exercises.

When Inga signaled that her hair was dry, her captresses broke off their exercises and came over to where she was sitting. Jeri turned off the hairdryer and took the bonnet off her. Miki ran a comb through her hair to fluff out her shag. Then the scene took a very weird turn.

Jeri led Inga to the strange pattern on the carpet and made her stand on it. From the laundry bag Miki took Inga's shower cap, the effectively-standard beret-style cap made of transparent-white plastic (with small violets printed on it) with a white rubber headband. She took it to Inga and told her to put it on. Meanwhile Fifi opened the flute case and took from it a rod the length of her forearm. It appeared to be made of transparent ivory and was as thick as a man's thumb. Glittering pulses of red light flowed toward the tip, which bore the shape of the front end of a rifle bullet. Fifi took the rod and stood on the left side of Inga, who stood passively with her hair puffing out the plastic of her shower cap.

Miki stood in front of Inga and said, "Now, dear Inga, we're going to blow you up."

At that Inga inhaled and puffed out her belly. Fifi touched the tip of the rod to Inga's neck an inch below her left ear and the gym resounded with a loud thump. Tracy could have sworn that he saw Inga's breasts lift up and jut forward half an inch. Fifi went to put the rod back in its case and Miki looked Inga up and down. "Perfect!" she said.

She started to turn away from Inga, then she spun back around and punched her right fist deep into Inga's belly. With her hands still pressed against her thighs, Inga bent over, bowing over Miki's fist. Then she sprang back up and bounced off Miki's fist as lightly as a beach ball. In less than a heartbeat Inga tipped over backward almost to the floor and then bounced smartly upright to be punched again. And again. Every punch made Inga's inflated body emit a soft rubbery thump.

For an hour The Kitten Sisters played with their new toy, making her bounce gaily up and down for their amusement. In spite of the drug, Tracy was appalled to see a living woman transformed into an inflated plastic punching bag. At least, he told himself by way of consolation, Inga was now dead and could not experience what her erstwhile teammates were doing with what was left of her body. He knew, with renewed horror, that, if rescue didn't come soon, he was seeing the fate that the vile women were planning for him.

Then the nightmare got worse. Panting from exhaustion, The Kitten Sisters stopped punching Inga. Fifi and Miki went to the laundry bag sitting on one of the chairs by the wall and Fifi pulled out Inga's Stormette™ raincoat, a duster-style coat with an attached pixie-style hood, all made of transparent-lilac plastic that had purple tiger stripes printed on it. Miki pulled out Inga's Happy Homekeeper™ apron, which was made of transparent-red plastic that was undecorated except for the words "Plastic Prisoner" printed across the top of the skirt in big, blobbery opaque-green letters.

Fifi held out the raincoat to Inga and told her to put it on. Tracy thought it was some kind of sadistic taunt, but then Jeri stepped her right foot onto part of the pattern on the floor and Inga reached up and took the proffered raincoat. As Inga put on the raincoat Tracy understood that she was still, in some sense, alive: she could sense her surroundings and move more or less normally as a living plastic doll. Jeri pulled the raincoat's hood up over Inga's shower cap and Miki stepped forward to slip the apron's halterneck over Inga's head and let it rest on her neck and shoulders.

As Jeri pulled the apron's ties behind Inga's back and slipknotted them in a neat bow Miki said, "I, Miki Baguehotte, take you, Inga Yelma, to be our helpless plastic prisoner, to have and to hold, to possess and to command, as punching bag and slave, for our pleasure's sake, forever and always."

Inga shook her head and held up her hands in a pleading gesture, but Jeri just took her hand and led her toward the stairs. With a desperate lunge, Inga broke free and ran, but Fifi intercepted her, picked her up, and tossed her to Jeri as if she were nothing more than a beach ball. Jeri caught Inga, tucked her under one arm, and carried the desperately squirming woman upstairs.

Fifi and Miki shut down the gym for the night. As they did so they discussed their plans, speculating on how much certain men might pay to have inflatable women in their harems. From what Tracy overheard it was clear that to avoid drawing attention to themselves The Kitten Sisters planned to mitigate the city's prostitution problem, enriching themselves by selling blow-up whores to Arab princelings. As a police officer, Tracy disliked prostitutes, certainly, but didn't believe that they deserved such a fate. Then Fifi turned out the lights and she and Miki went upstairs. Miki noted that pimps, vile unmanly creatures that they were, would make delightful feminized punching bags and that calf-length hostess aprons would masturbate them as they bounced for their masters. The women got a giggle out of that.

Later that night Tracy was ridden hard by a bizarre nightmare (the mare in nightmare is an Old English word for demon and does not refer to a female horse - PC). His captresses had gone to bed, certainly, but Tracy couldn't sleep. The horror was too fresh in his mind and he kept thinking of what that glowing rod could do in other people's hands. Eventually he dozed, but the horror suffused his dreams:


It was a pathetic land, half-frozen in time. Technologically it lay in the Twentieth Century, but culturally and socially it lay firmly fixed in the Seventh Century A.D. It was a land dominated by a tribal society organized in accordance with the Wohhooboi Doctrine, whose central tenet stated that, "Women are toys".

That was bad news for Princess Misha'al, a daughter of the Boohoondi tribe. She had been educated in a foreign land, where, in spite of the best efforts of her minders, she acquired a taste for being treated like a person rather than as livestock. Back home, back in the harem (Arabic for forbidden zone), she schemed to steal freedom wherever she found it.

She would sometimes disguise herself as a man in order to sneak out of the sprawling palace that was the power center of the Boohoondi clan. She usually did this in order to enjoy trysts with Waleed, hapless scion of a no-account tribe that could not protect him. Of course they got caught: in its only concession to modernity, the pathetic land was a police state. (And that term made Tracy cringe in his sleep. Police are supposed to protect the innocent, not oppress them.)

In a drugged stupor, Misha'al and Waleed were taken to the Boohoondi palace. Misha'al was sent back to the harem and Waleed was put into an isolated bedroom in the rear of the palace. For the next several days they were fed an herb that kept them docile and obedient (straight out of Sinbad's Fourth Voyage - PC) and Waleed was given a potion that made his facial and body hair fall out.

On the third morning after his capture poor, hapless Waleed was plastified for the amusement of his captors. He took a shower at their behest and when he was completely dry he put on a girl's transparent-black plastic shower cap that they gave him. In response to a previously whispered command, when he put on the shower cap his penis swelled, lengthened, and jutted upright. Just before he climaxed he took a deep breath and puffed out his belly. An elder touched the transforming wand to the tip of Waleed's penis, thereby turning him into an inflated plastic doll with his fully erect penis serving as the valve through which he could be deflated and reinflated (though no one admitted to wanting the job of reinflating the poor boy. Well, perhaps one of the women could be convinced to do it? - PC).

The effect of the drugs was erased by the plastification, so Waleed regained his will, but he saw his situation and continued to cooperate with his captors. Nonetheless he quailed when one of the men gave him a transparent-black plastic raincoat and told him to put it on. It looked just like a plastic version of a woman's abaya. Crying inside, he put it on and one of the men pulled the hood up over his shower cap. The elder told him to stand up straight and to put his hands on the sides of his thighs and, when he complied, the elder touched the tip of his magic wand to the lowest magnetic patch on the raincoat's placket.

Instantly the raincoat became a big, bouncy, roly-poly punching bag with Waleed trapped inside. For the rest of the day the boys and young men played with Waleed, bouncing him around the room and gloating over him. Hour after hour pitiful Waleed danced the bop-bag boogie and endured the taunts of his captors. When night came the boys and young men left and the elder came and reversed the transformation of the raincoat, leaving Waleed as an inflated plastic doll wearing a plastic abaya.

Throughout the night Waleed entertained a remarkable number of sneaky visitors. The next morning the elder discerned that Waleed's belly bulged a little bit more than it had the night before. The sad clown was pregnant with a copy of his new raincoat. Of course, no one admitted having anything to do with such an outrageous offense. "I didn't do it" became the chorus of the day. (Yeah, it must have been done by a genie. What else could it be? - PC) When Misha'al's Big Day came, Waleed's belly bulged against the inside of his raincoat, pulling the plastic taut over his middle.

Ah, Misha'al! She was back in the harem, more or less having fun as she waited for her Big Day. Every night the women would have a party and Misha'al would join them in belly dancing with their punching bags.

Oh, the women's punching bags! Each one resembled an elongated pear a little less than six feet tall, made of soft, smooth, opaque-black plastic. It bore an image, both front and back, of a completely naked, doe-eyed young woman (one of the houris of Arab legend - PC) standing with her hands at her sides in an attitude of submission. The valve with its stubby tube through which the bag could be deflated and reinflated was on the front of the bag between the houri's feet and above the valve white Arabic lettering proclaimed 'Abdah Blastikah (Plastic Slavegirl).

Oh, how the women loved to dance with their plastic prisoners. A woman would confront her hot-air houri and poke and jab her as she danced, making the bag bounce and wobble. She might spice up her dance by bouncing the houri off her belly with a well-timed thrust of her hips or she might lean forward to get a kiss from her houri as the bag bounced up against her face. (Oh, yes. The only good thing about a sexually segregated society is that the harem becomes a little Sapphonic paradise. - PC)

Misha'al enjoyed dancing with the houris. When the girls and young women danced with her and talked about testing her she didn't suspect a thing. Then her Big Day came, the day of her execution.

At the appointed time four girls escorted Misha'al, wearing only a black cashmere abaya, to the Great Hall of the palace. Acting more like bridesmaids than guards, the girls led Misha'al to a door that opened onto a central aisle. The Hall's furnishings had been set up on the plan of an infidel church and the place was decorated as if for a wedding. On the left side of the aisle sat the men and boys and the girls and women sat on the right.

Still dazed by the drug, Misha'al watched Waleed being brought into the Hall by four boys. Wearing only his plastic raincoat, he had been bound at the wrists and ankles by a set of shackles made of inch-wide, doubled-plastic ribbons. With his head bowed and being prodded by one of the boys, he shuffled to the groom's place beside the altar.

Misha'al's time had come. The girls prodded her and escorted her down the aisle to the altar, where the tribal elder stood with the transforming wand. At the altar one of the girls took Misha'al's abaya, leaving her standing naked. Another girl gave Misha'al her own transparent-black plastic shower cap and told her to put it on. A third girl whispered in her ear and her nipples and clitoris swelled and stiffened. As she began to climax the elder touched the tip of his wand to the left side of her neck and turned her into an inflated plastic doll.

Misha'al's mind cleared and she tried to cover her breasts and her crotch with her hands. The first two girls grabbed her arms and turned her around to face the audience. The fourth girl unfurled a big, fat, ruffle-skirted kitchen apron made of soft, smooth transparent-black plastic and slipped the halterneck over Misha'al's head. The third girl pulled the apron's ties behind Misha'al's back and slipknotted them in a neat bow. Her head bowed in shame, Misha'al saw at the top of the apron's ankle-length skirt white Arabic script proclaiming her as 'Abdah Blastikah.

The elder announced that Princess Misha'al was now Slave Princess Misha'al and that the first person who would play with her was her own younger sister, Hanan. Misha'al tried to get away, but to no avail. Shyly Hanan took Misha'al's hand and led her, still struggling, out of the Hall. And that's when Tracy finally slipped into a deep dreamless slumber.


The next day the women, in their black catsuits and plastic aprons, brought Inga back to the gym for their morning workout. Tracy could see through the plastic of her raincoat that she was wearing red plastic boxing trunks. The Kitten Sisters compelled Inga to take off her apron and raincoat and lay them on a chair, then they put her onto the holding pattern and played with her for an hour, taking turns using her as a punching bag.

As one woman played with Inga, the other two cleaned out Inga's cage and put fresh bedding on the cot, preparing the cage for its next guest. Then they fed Tracy, ensuring that there was a proper dose of the enslaving drug in it. When Tracy finished eating, one of the women took him to the hygiene alcove to bathe while the other cleaned his cage and changed the bedding on his cot.

The women finished playing with Inga shortly after they put Tracy back into his cage. After a quick whispered conference, they took Inga off the holding spot, took her boxing trunks off her, and then pushed her into the cage with Tracy. With an evil leer, Fifi looked Tracy in the eye and said, "Play with her."

Inga put up her hands in a pushing gesture to try to countermand Fifi's order, but it didn't work. Tracy, for his part, tried to stop himself. He thought of his wife, Tess, and of his assumption that no force on Earth could make him betray the vow he made to her on their wedding day. That, too, failed. He grabbed Inga, laid her down on his cot and then mounted her, penetrated her, and pumped himself to a quick climax. He was appalled that he had done nothing for her. Feeling her shuddering under him, he hugged her and tried to apologize. He was humiliated by the rude comments and snickers coming from outside the cage.

Two days later Tracy's time ran out. After bathing him in the morning, Miki sat him down in a chair and put the hairdryer on him. His hair had grown out rapidly during his captivity, so it was almost as long as Miki's. When his hair was dry, Miki led him to stand on the holding pattern. Jeri rummaged in a box marked with the Kleinert's™ name and logo and brought out a girl's shower cap made of transparent-black plastic with a black rubber headband. She whispered an appalling command into Tracy's ear and then put the shower cap on him.

His penis swelled and lengthened and then came fully erect, jutting up long and straight. His breathing deepened as his arousal intensified at the sight of Fifi holding the magic rod and suggestively stroking her apron. As he approached climax he inhaled and puffed out his belly. Fifi touched him with the rod at that same instant and he felt a jolt, as if something had exploded inside him. His mind cleared and he regained his will as the effect of the drug went away. Then Fifi went to put the rod back into its flute case and take it upstairs.

He felt another jolt as Miki punched his belly. He was astonished to notice that the punch didn't hurt: it simply felt like getting bumped. He did, however, get dizzy from watching the wall and ceiling rapidly changing places in his field of vision. For several hours The Kitten Sisters took turns playing Bop-a-Cop. At one point, when Fifi was taking her turn, Jeri sang a limerick (to the tune of "Popeye, the Sailor Man" - PC):

"Now Tracy's a punching bag
at the hands of a vile hag."

Fifi shot her a poisonous look.

"His condition is drastic
'cause he's made of plastic
and bouncing is such a drag."

Finally the women wore themselves out and took Tracy off the holding spot. Miki went to a box marked Stormette™ and brought out an extra large woman's raincoat made of transparent-black plastic. She held it up for everyone to see and then gave it to Tracy with a command to put it on. He could have refused, now that he was no longer under the influence of the drug, but he complied with the command because he wanted to cover his nudity. Then Fifi went to a box bearing the name and logo of the Happy Homekeeper™ Company and took out an apron made of transparent-blue plastic with the words "Plastic Prisoner" printed across the top of the skirt in big blobbery opaque-yellow letters.

They didn't give him a choice with the apron. Jeri pulled the hood of his raincoat up over his shower cap. Fifi put the halterneck over his head and Miki pulled the ties around behind his back and slipknotted them in a neat bow. Then the women took him upstairs.

Gripping Tracy's arm, Fifi led the plastified man down a hall. Snickering, she took him to a door at the rear of the house, opened it, shoved him through it, then closed it.

Tracy found himself in a room that spanned the full width of the house and the rear third of it. It didn't have a bathroom, but it was otherwise a complete, well-furnished apartment. The bedroom, with its double bed, was on the left and the sitting area was on his right. And directly in front of him stood two large punching bags, a pair of plastified people standing on side-by-side holding patterns.

One was a zaftig young woman of medium height whose bright red hair puffed out a shower cap made of a white rubber headband and transparent-white plastic that had thumbnail-sized blue-and-white starbursts printed on it. She wore a Stormette™ duster-style raincoat made of transparent-black plastic and she had a startled, dismayed look frozen on her face.

The other punching bag consisted of a pudgy young man wearing a transparent-gray plastic raincoat. He had a shocked expression on his face and his black hair had been tucked into a shower cap made of a white rubber headband and transparent-white plastic on which a tiara pattern of bubbly pink, yellow, and pale-blue lollidots had been printed. Through the plastic of the raincoat Tracy could see the man's penis jutting up in full erection.

"The perfect plastic princess and his blow-up slut." The words just seemed to form themselves in Tracy's mind. He was perplexed by them, because it wasn't anything that he would say. Then a movement on his right caught his attention.

A woman with a haughty expression on her face and a bearing to match was coming toward him. Her blond Marilyn-Monroe hairstyle was tucked up into a shower cap made of a yellow rubber headband and pale transparent-yellow plastic on which red-orange lollidots had been printed. She wore a full-skirted raincoat made of almost-clear transparent-white plastic on which white starbursts were printed and a Happy Homekeeper™ apron that Tracy was sure Happy Homekeeper™ didn't make: it was made of transparent-black plastic and had a foot-wide image of a butterfly with wings of flame emblazoned on the skirt and on the bib there was a circle inscribed in an equilateral triangle inscribed in a six-inch-wide circle printed in gold, the alchemists' symbol of transmutation. The stubby tube jutting from the left side of her neck indicated that she was another of The Kitten Sisters' plastic prisoners.

He felt like chuckling over that last thought and thought it odd. Then the woman beckoned to him and indicated that he should sit in one of the big stuffed armchairs in the sitting area. As he sat down he began to have a strange daydream. Bizarre thoughts entered his mind as the woman took the seat opposite his chair and stared at him.

Suddenly he realized that the thoughts weren't his. The woman was projecting her thoughts into his mind. So that, he thought on his own, is what that telepathy stuff that science-fiction writers talk about feels like. Then he saw the truth: the woman was not The Kitten Sisters' prisoner; she was their mentor. And she had a story to tell.


Her name was Elsa Crystal and she was a thread of a world-line, as the Einsteinians called it, coming from a tightly woven tapestry of ancestral witches, real ones, extending into the mists of prehistory. Some of the threads in that tapestry had been part of a coven in the Town of Salem in that unsettled time after an Indian-Settler war when three insane girls struck panic into the townsfolk with their frenzies and accusations. The real witches were in no actual danger, of course; after all, witch means Wise One. They had simply laughed at the sheer imbecility of the witch hunters and they had wept for the innocent victims of the hysteria fomented by a trio of teenaged lunatics.

The advent of the Enlightenment made life less precarious, less dangerous for witches. And the growth of large cities created safe havens for them. (If you want to see how urban witches lived in the 1950's, watch the movie "Bell, Book, and Candle". - PC) Elsa was born into a world in which witches were no longer hunted and persecuted.

Elsa knew early on that she would be a transformationist, a witch who can transform things (such as turning people into toads or lead into gold - PC). When she was ten years old, in that magic year when so many people find their life's calling, she discovered a new material that had become available and fell in love with it. It was polyvinyl plastic film (which puts her tenth year somewhere in the late 1930's - PC) and it was wonderful.

It was a copolymer of vinyl chloride and vinyl acetate and it was as thin as a sheet of paper. It warmed instantly to the touch and draped as limply as a silk scarf. Calendered, it was as smooth as a young woman's skin and displayed a soft, almost waxy sheen. And it was transparent with a slight haziness to it. Tinted with a variety of colors and with small images printed onto it, it was the most sensuous thing Elsa had ever encountered.

She experimented with the material and devised a way to make it virtually indestructible. Then she learned how to transmute other materials into this wonderful substance and she made herself a rod that would hold the spells and carry out the transformations for her automatically when she touched its tip to something. Her mention of the rod led Tracy to notice the flute case lying on a table set against the wall. She was approaching her majority when she took a yellow rubber raincoat and transformed it into transparent-yellow plastic. She had even added to her rod a spell that automatically changed the buttons into magnetic patches like the ones on the new Stormette™ plastic raincoats. She had changed a rather stodgy garment into one of exquisite feminine delicacy.

As a reward for her success she made herself a witch's apron. She acquired a large sheet of black paper and then cut and pasted it into a copy of one of the Happy Homekeeper™ aprons that had just become popular with housewives in this new Age of Plastic. She had painted a butterfly with flaming wings and a transmutation symbol onto the paper apron. With heart aflutter she touched the rod to her creation and thereby acquired the transparent-black plastic apron that she was currently wearing.

She continued to develop and expand her power, adding yet more spells to her magic rod. She developed the ability to make inflatable toys. A new spell put a simple one-way flap valve onto any object that completely enclosed a volume. She turned a Dutchwife into a inflated plastic hugging pillow that she took to bed and cuddled when she masturbated.

Another witch acquainted her with a kind of rubbery forcefield that would press against inflated plastic objects and hold them. She added the spell to her rod and found that the rod, properly manipulated, would squirt a ray of purple light and create a kind of kaleidoscopic pattern where it hit and that the forcefield emanated from that pattern.

In her home art studio she made an odd sculpture. She had obtained a large block of Styrofoam and formed a very stiff wire into a certain curve. She heated the wire with an electric current, pushed it into the block, and carefully turned it. When she broke away the outer part of the block, she had a bulbous chunk of Styrofoam that resembled an elongated pear six feet tall. She pulped several rolls of paper towels and mixed a little paste into the mush to make a papier mâché putty, which she spread onto the bulb in a thin layer. When it dried, she sanded it smooth and painted it, bright red across the bottom of the large end and white over the rest of it. Over the span of a week she painted the image of a clown, both front and back, onto the bulb. At last she took her rod and touched the bulb at a point between the clown's feet and the bulb became an inflate plastic bag.

She positioned the bag over the pattern on the floor, stepped on a certain part of the pattern, and felt the rubbery forcefield rise up and grip the bag. When she knocked the bag over by punching it, it bounced smartly back upright. She had made for herself an inflatable punching bag, more or less like the smaller ones given to children at Christmastime.

She continued to learn about the forcefield. She learned that a modified version of it could support a living spirit and enable that spirit to continue perceiving the world through the senses of vision, hearing, and touch. Such a spirit-infused field manifested inside a plastic bag would be able to move the bag. It would be possible, Elsa understood, to transform an animal or a person into a living plastic doll. She was horrified by the thought. She couldn't imagine herself doing such a thing. Then she got a volunteer, so she put the new spell into her rod.

Claude Crystal had swept her off her feet, as they say in the romance novels. She had anticipated a life of happiness when she married him. But just as Claude didn't know that he had married a witch, she didn't know that she had married a narcissistic putz. He had gotten himself locked into a toddler's mindset and sought to cover up his feelings of inadequacy and inferiority by asserting dominance over people, especially those closest to him. Unfortunately for Claude, one does not dominate a witch.

So Claude chickened out. Instead of striving to overcome his deficiencies for Elsa's sake, he decided to dump her like so much garbage. He made that decision when he met a vivacious young redhead named Angela. She wasn't the brightest bulb on the marquee and she was so eager to please that he dominated her easily.

Next he embezzled $200,000 from his employer and prepared to head for France. (Tracy remembered the case from a few years previous. The embezzler had never been found and now Tracy knew why.) He never took the first step. He and Angela were caught in the trap that Elsa had laid for them. They had stood, suitably drugged, in Elsa's bedroom, completely naked and wearing pretty plastic shower caps. The shower caps were intended as catalysts to ease the process of plastification, to ensure that the prisoners would not end up looking bald, and to further humiliate Claude.

Claude got plastified first. He stood on the holding spot and Elsa made sure that his penis was standing straight and hard: she wanted him to enjoy what she was about to do to him. She touched the tip of her rod to the left side of his neck and was delighted when he turned into a plastic doll with a loud thump. Then she spent several long minutes trying to punch the stuffing out of him, a couple of times making him it the floor with a soft whap. She was careful, though, not to exhaust herself. After only a few minutes of punching Claude she put his raincoat on him, took him off the holding pattern, and tied him to a chair.

Then Elsa blew up Angela, making sure that she was fully aroused before touching her with the magic rod. Now she wore herself out, punching her hot-air homewrecker. She was gratified to see Claude struggling mightily (and futilely) to get out of the chair. "Oh, her knight in shining plastic!" she taunted. "Coming to rescue her from the wicked old witch!"

After playing with her new toys for a time, Elsa let the air out of them, enjoying the sensation of squirming inflated dolls suddenly going limp in her embrace, and then hid them in her underwear drawer, lest someone find them when the police came to ask about Claude, as they surely would. At night she would reinflate her prisoners and play with them some more. She would take Angela to bed with her and use her as a body pillow. Sometimes she would masturbate on the hapless blow-up bimbo - Oh, all right - every time she would masturbate on her soft, hot pneumatic pushover. In the morning she would deflate Claude and Angela again.

This happy situation persisted for some time. Then Elsa got sick. Now the witches have been healers for millenia. There's almost no disease on Earth that they cannot defeat. Almost. Elsa had been attacked by a degenerative horror that, over time, would rot her from the inside and the other witches had nothing that would kill it. There was only one thing for Elsa to do.

She had known The Kitten Sisters for several years and had sometimes used spells to help them in their careers. She knew that they were slightly less than honorable, but she could exploit that fact. So she invited them over for tea and took care that the tea contained a subtle hint of witches' truth serum. She slyly interrogated the four women (Inga was still part of the group then) and made her proposal while the women were still suggestible.

So it came to pass that The Kitten Sisters converted the rear third of the second floor of their house into a plush apartment. Elsa moved her personal possessions and furniture into it and sold the rest with her house. Settled into her new apartment, she stripped off all of her clothes and put on her shower cap. Her apartment didn't have a bathroom (it didn't need one), so she went down to the gym and took her last shower. Back in her apartment she took her rod out of its case and stood facing her bed. She aroused herself, feeling her nipples and clitoris swell and stiffen. She got hotter than she had ever been before and just before she reached climax she touched the tip of her rod to the left side of her neck.

She felt a jolt and heard a loud whump. She had plastified herself and stopped the disease dead cold in its tracks. Perhaps someday the other witches would find a cure and she could restore herself to normal. For the time being, though, she was an inflated plastic doll. But not like the others. The rod had contained two one-use-only spells. One had stiffened the forcefield inside her and given her nearly her normal human strength (it just wouldn't do to have her own plastic prisoners overpowering her). The other had given her the power of telepathy, so that she could still communicate with people.

She had to use a small air pump to inflate her prisoners, since she could no longer blow them up herself. She played with Angela for the rest of the day and all night to celebrate her new condition. Then she made a wonderful discovery: she could wear her raincoat on her bare skin indefinitely without it getting sweaty and sticky. She luxuriated in the sensations of her own raincoat caressing her, in essence making love to her.

Time passed and she continued her study of witchcraft. Then she found out that The Kitten Sisters had captured the famous Dick Tracy and intended to platify him. At last she saw the possibility of obtaining a companion of nearly equal intellectual ability, a big step up from half-witted Claude and his dimbulb girlfriend, and the Kittens were glad to let her have him.


So now Tracy was Elsa's permanent plastic prisoner. And he saw what she had in mind to do with him when she stood up and took off her apron. He tried desperately to project an image of Tess and of his love for her, but the woman he imagined was dressed in widow's weeds and a mourning veil and she faded out. Elsa took off her raincoat, then pulled Tracy out of his chair and undressed him. Then she pushed him into her bed and got in on top of him. He tried to suppress his sexual feelings, but when a telepathic witch climaxes her partner goes into an incomparable ecstasy. Tracy was simply doomed.

But the story doesn't stop there. No, this is merely a prologue to The Kitten Sisters' special slave trade. We won't go into that here, but there is just one last, small episode in this prologue.

At Jeri's urging, The Kitten Sisters made one more test of their procedures before going into the slavedoll business. It turned out to be a strong challenge, but the women met it perfectly.

Now Lizz Worthington stood inflated and helpless in The Kitten Sisters' home. She wore her own beret-style shower cap, made of transparent dark-blue plastic with a dark-blue rubber headband. She also wore her raincoat, which was made of the same limp-soft, skin-smooth plastic. She had already been tested as a punching bag, so now Jeri escorted her upstairs, to her bedroom.

Filled with hot lust, Lizz struggled to suppress the erotic thoughts that came into her mind, thoughts evoked by the sensations of her ample breasts bulging against the warm plastic of her raincoat. She didn't notice Jeri lovingly stroking her apron as they went up the stairs. Once they were inside Jeri's bedroom and Jeri had closed the door, Lizz realized the full horror of her situation.

Jeri's voice came faintly through the door, saying, "With this apron I thee wed, that you may serve my lust in bed; so I take you to be my warm plastic bride, to have and to hold, to possess and to enjoy, for my pleasure's sake, forever and ever."

Yes, in the great millenia-long struggle to transform widely-scattered, ready-to-war bands of hunter-gatherers into a fully unified, fundamentally decent, mutually supporting Humanity, sometimes Evil wins. Heh, heh, heh.


This fantasy was inspired by the episode of the Dick Tracy comic strip that ran from 1956 Dec 30 to 1957 Apr 08. In that episode Fifi, disguised as a snowman, murdered Inga with a bow and arrow as Inga soared off the ski ramp at Indian Head. Later, Fifi and her two partners captured Tracy and nearly beat him to death in their private gym. Tracy and his crew eventually captured the three women with the help of a character who was a caricature of bandleader Spike Jones.

The scene in which Tracy confronts the witch was inspired by the episode of the Dick Tracy comic strip that began 1957 Sep 06 with a scene of Elsa Crystal in the walk-in freezer in the basement of her Victorian mansion home. She's taunting and gloating over the corpse of her husband, who sits frozen in a chair. Claude Crystal had embezzled $200,000 from his employer and planned to flee the country, leaving Elsa behind. Elsa discerned what was happening, drugged Claude, and then froze him to death. It was gruesome, as Dick Tracy episodes tended to be.

But if I replace freezing with Elsa plastifying her hapless hubby and keeping him in her bedroom as a toy, the episode becomes more titillating. It replaces unmitigated horror and disgust with the soft "horror" of Bondage and Discipline, a situation of pseudo-horror that one might not want to escape.

The experience of anxiety is indifferent to content: sexual anxiety affects us physiologically just the same as does any other kind of anxiety, such as the anxiety that would attend being sold as a slave. The same circuits in the brain convert percepts (sensations) and concepts (thoughts) into the release of chemicals that cause the body to display the physiological reactions of anxiety. Thus it is easy to convert the anxiety of enslavement into the anxiety of sex, so long as we can remove the factors that would interfere with the identification.

Both of the episodes of Dick Tracy referred to here can be found in Volume 17 of The Complete Dick Tracy, published by The Library of American Comics (IDW Publishing, San Diego).

Tracy's nightmare was inspired by "Death of a Princess", a British docudrama produced and shown in 1980. The producer had been inspired by a story he had heard while touring the Middle East. There were few verifiable facts available, but the gist of the story was that a young woman, educated in the West, had fallen in love with a man her tribe did not approve. The princess and her paramour attempted to elope from Saudi Arabia, were caught, and were both killed by the woman's tribe. It sounded like a perfect modern version of Romeo and Juliet, so the producer broadcast a semi-documentary recreation of the event.

The broadcast created a diplomatic incident. Like weak-souled people, repressive regimes cannot endure criticism. The Devil is not mocked, as they say. Someday those regimes will be gone, never to return. Humanity will have evolved a fully decent civilization and those regimes, in spite of their claims to be highly moral, will only be remembered as the inspiration for an impressively vast, sexually perverted literature. Just like this story.

Stormette was a real company that produced plastic raincoats in the late 1940's and early 1950's. The company didn't last long, presumably because they made their raincoats by sewing the plastic pieces together instead of welding them (using radio-frequency heat sealers). The major weakness of polyvinyl film is that it tears easily on a raw edge, so poking holes in it for the passage of thread creates weak points that will tear before a welded seam will. In these stories I'm assuming that Stormette used welding instead of sewing; used a copolymer plastic (vinyl chloride and vinyl acetate polymerized together) instead of plasticized polyvinyl chloride; and used magnetic patches instead of buttons or snaps for closures. Raincoats made that way would have been of much higher quality and Stormette would have lasted longer.

Kleinert's Rubber Company is a real company. It was founded in 1869 by Isaak B. Kleinert, who invented the shower cap, among other things involved in personal hygiene. Originally shower caps were made entirely of rubber and resembled modern swim caps. It was during World War II, when rubber for civilian use was in short supply, that someone at Kleinert's invented the beret-style plastic shower cap, which was popular through the 1970's.

There was, to the best of my knowledge, no company or brand called Happy Homekeeper. But plastic aprons, like the ones I describe in the story, were popular with housewives in the 1950's through the 1960's. Large grocery stores usually had end-of-aisle displays of aprons, but, alas, they were gone by the 1970's.




You can also leave feedback & comments for this story on the Plaza Forum


If you've enjoyed this story, please write to the author and let them know - they may write more!
back to