Wearing It Too Well

The Halloween Party

After months of barely crossing paths--late nights, early mornings, and work pulling you and your wife, Gabby, in opposite directions--you finally agree to let loose for one night.

Tonight, you're going to the Halloween party. The one whispered about by friends--the kind of night where the drinks never stop, boundaries don't exist, and what happens in costume stays in the dark.

You're dressed as Batman: full-body suit, cape, cowl, voice modulator, the works. Anonymous.

Gabby is in a tight, head-to-toe Catwoman costume--black leather, zipped down just enough to draw attention. The suit clings to soft curves, reshaping her silhouette into something sharper, more dangerous. A two-headed zipper traces her front from throat to the small of her back, slipping between her legs before vanishing into a seam just above her ass--like a secret waiting to be pulled. A sleek black mask hides her features; only her lips are visible, painted dark and parted with something between a smirk and a promise. Her hair is tucked beneath the cowl. From behind, even you might miss her in the crowd--until she moves.

It's almost unreal. The same girl who used to curl up on the couch in your hoodie, all wide eyes and shy laughs, now slinking through the dark like sin in heels.

The house is packed. Bass-heavy music shakes the floor. People are already half-naked, grinding, laughing, vanishing up staircases. Someone's wearing nothing but body paint. You grab a drink. Gabby grabs your hand.

You haven't been able to stop staring. Every inch of her costume looks like it was designed to test you. You weren't expecting this. Not from her.

She catches your eyes lingering--and smiles like she planned it.

She leans in, her lips brushing your ear.

"Unzips either way," she murmurs. "Convenient, right?"

You don't take the bait out loud.

But in your head, she's already bent over, hands braced against the nearest wall, while you drag that zipper down.

Convenient, indeed.

You let it hang for a beat.

"Funny -- I don't remember that detail being part of the design."

She smirks.

"That part was for you."

A booming voice from the DJ booth calls out: "Costume contest in five! Winners get prizes--losers get dared. Bring your best or prepare to perform."

She looks at you with a tipsy grin. "We have to, right?"

You're both unrecognizable under your masks, and that anonymity adds a pulse of excitement. Dangerous, thrilling. It buzzes beneath your skin. But it's just a costume contest... right?

You both head toward the stage. The music swells. The crowd opens. And somewhere in this mess, the night is about to take a turn. The stage is bright, pulsing with neon as the crowd roars. You and Gabby stand side by side--masked strangers, even to each other. The announcer counts down, and the two of you are suddenly in motion--posing, striking, showing off your costumes.

Your cape swirls as you move. Gabby rolls her hips, her gloved hands trailing down her curves. The crowd howls, heat rising in waves around you. The bass thumps against your chest, vibrating through your bones, making the moment feel even more electric.

The MC grins wickedly, holding up a mic.

"Second place gets dared! You ready to play, Batman and Catwoman?"

The crowd whoops.

"All right, first up--Batman! Your challenge: one drink, one masked stranger, and no turning back. We call it... The Permission Slip."

Gabby laughs beside you, and the sound buzzes in your chest.

The MC winks. "Careful. It's not just booze--it's magic. Drink up!"

A glass is thrust into your hand--thick, frosted, already beading with condensation. You raise it slowly, the slushy liquid inside an ominous shade of neon. Your fingers are slick with moisture. The crowd counts down.

Three. Two. One.

You tip it back. The cocktail hits hard--icy, metallic, laced with something electric. A roar erupts as you choke it down, the burn searing through your chest. Your muscles buzz. The room tilts--not in space, but in feeling. Laughter spikes. Music vibrates under your skin.

You're lighter. Looser. Like someone just turned the dial down to a one.

The MC turns to Gabby.

"And now, for our lovely Catwoman... You've got to find a masked stranger. Dance with him. Flirt with him. Make us feel it."

The crowd howls in approval.

I shift to the side as the MC steps forward, blocking my view. I move off the stage, trying to keep eyes on her through the crowd.

Gabby leans in, her gloved hand brushing your arm. Her lips don't touch yours--but her body lingers.

Then, just before she moves, she turns her head, just enough to look at you.

A flicker of something passes between you--uncertainty, mischief. Like she's asking are we really doing this?

And you... nod. Barely. But it's enough.

She smiles--just a curve of her lips, a mask hiding everything else.

With a sway of her hips, she slips into the crowd.

Neon catches on her leather as she disappears between bodies. You lose her for a moment--then spot her again across the room, lit in a pulse of purple and blue. She's approaching someone.

Tall. Broad. Dressed in matte black and silver, with a bodysuit that clings like armor. A gasmask covers the lower half of his face--, compact, almost surgical. Tubes run back along his jaw, glowing faintly at the seams.

He looks like something from a dystopian dream.

Gabby slows. Tilts her head. Her hips keep swaying.

He doesn't move--until her gloved hand finds the edge of his mask and lingers. Just her fingertips. Soft. Suggestive. Just enough to make him lean in.

Gabby presses into him, her body molding to the hard lines of his suit. Her breath clouds through the slit in her mask--quick, shallow, wanting. Her hand slips to her zipper, easing it down just enough to bare a sliver of skin beneath the black leather. She flirts with slow, deliberate touches, her gloved fingers tracing the sculpted edges of his shoulders, dipping lower. I can't look away. The Permission Slip burns bright in my veins, turning every sound, every breath, every flick of her fingers into something electric. She moves like she's under a spell--slow, sensual, magnetic--and every brush of her hand across his body feels like it's dragging across my nerves.

His hands find her waist, steadying her. Their bodies sway together to the rhythm, hips aligning like they've done this before. My throat tightens--it looks too natural, too easy. His fingers grip her hips, drawing her close. Even through her mask, I feel the hitch in her breath. A tremor runs through her. My heart slams in my chest. I'm drunk. Reckless. Her zipper slips a little lower, her gloved fingers sliding down the curve of his spine, pausing at the small of his back like she's offering him an opening. No one else in the crowd sees her face. But I do. I know the way her breath stutters, how her hips stutter then surge. She's not just playing a part--she's sinking into it.

The cyborg tilts his head, pressing his lips to the bare skin below her mask--slow, deliberate, reverent. A shiver runs through her. She arches into him, hips rolling in rhythm. The bass hums through my chest, wrapping around the warmth rising deep. It builds--thick, electric, impossible to ignore. His hands drift lower, fingers brushing the curve of her ass. Gabby meets his touch, unflinching.

You watch him lean in for a kiss.

I hold my breath as the cyborg's lips brush Gabby's, finding hers in a deep, hungry kiss. My heart slams against my ribs, pressure rising to my throat. The Permission Slip thrums in my blood, sharpening every sense. I feel everything--her gasp, the way her body arches into him, the heat building between them like steam trapped under skin.

She melts into the kiss. Her gloved hands clutch his shoulders, pulling him closer, anchoring herself to the moment. Her hips press forward, slow and sure. The air tastes thick with want, reckless and rising, and I can feel it pulsing through me like a countdown.

He kisses her like he owns her--tongue sliding between her parted lips, claiming--and she doesn't pull away. She rolls her hips into him, slow and deliberate, her leather-clad body molding to his. The crowd fades. The music thins to a pulse behind my ears. All I see is her--hands curling into his suit, head tilting back like submission. His hands slide lower, gripping the soft leather of her ass. She moans--low, breathy, somewhere between a gasp and a plea--and her body undulates against him, hips rising like she's forgotten the room around her.

My cock throbs inside the Batman suit, the tight fabric useless at hiding it. I don't even register the crowd. It's just her--my wife--face masked, body moving like she was made for his hands. Unable to look away

The MC's voice cracks through the heat in my chest, yanking me back like a slap.

Gabby blinks, like waking from a dream. She pulls back slightly, lips parted, breath unsteady.

And then the crowd erupts--cheers, whistles, a few lewd shouts.

The MC laughs over the noise. "Alright, alright! We appreciate the show, but let's move on, folks. There are more dares to complete, and I'm sure Batman and Catwoman have more fun in store."

The cyborg reluctantly pulls away, hands lingering on Gabby's hips. She sways, breathless, gloved fingers still curled against his chest. Beneath the mask, I see the flush--cheeks pink, lips parted, still swollen from the kiss. She moves like she hasn't noticed the world returning.

He nods toward the bar with a crooked grin. "Maybe we should get a drink? Take this somewhere more private?" His voice is rough, low--he's as drunk on her as I am.

Gabby doesn't speak. Just shakes her head slowly, then turns. Her steps are uneven, like she's still underwater. I stand frozen, watching her come back to me--every breath ragged, the kiss still on her. Flushed skin. Twitching fingers. Hips rolling, like she hasn't quite remembered how to stop.

She stops in front of me, close enough that her heat hits my chest. Her head tilts, mask catching the neon flicker of party lights. "That was... intense," she murmurs, voice husky, almost unrecognizable. Her hands find my chest, fingers splayed like she's steadying herself--or maybe grounding us both.

My pulse hammers in my throat. The tight Batman suit hides nothing. Gabby's gloved fingers linger on your chest, her body still buzzing from the dare. You lean in, your masked forehead nearly brushing hers, and you kiss her--slow, deep, like you're trying to remind her who you are under all this.

She hums into your mouth, and when you pull back, her breath catches.

"Did that... bother you?" she asks, voice low. There's something uncertain beneath the bravado. "Me kissing someone else?"

You pause, voice rough, heat curling in your gut.

"It was... a lot. Now I just made me want you--bad."

She exhales softly, lips curving into a knowing smile.

"You're such a freak," she says, but there's warmth in her voice--an invitation.

She bites her lip. "I need to find the bathroom. I'll meet you by the bar?"

You nod, watching as she disappears into the crowd--her tight curves swallowed by pulsing lights and shadows. The cocktail still hums in your veins, every brush of skin against yours leaving sparks in its wake. The tight Batman suit hugs every inch of you, amplifying the heat building under your skin.

As you wait, the music swells. The bass thumps like a second heartbeat. A few nearby dancers glance your way--maybe drawn by the mystery of your masked costume, maybe by the tension rolling off you. You don't care. Every breath feels charged--like the night is wired into your skin.

"Dude."

You turn, eyes adjusting to the light and motion--and then realize the one speaking to you is Adrian Vega. He doesn't recognize you right away. Makes sense. The full Batman getup hides everything.

A ripple cuts through the crowd and there he is--Adrian, impossible to miss even with the mask. He's shirtless beneath a deep red open jacket, muscles catching the flash of strobe lights. His pants are fitted, dark, and claw-slashed at the knees, and the mask...

It's molded like a beast. Feral. Horned. A jaw curled in mid-snarl. Gold eyes gleam from the faceplate, wild and predatory.

He smirks, rolling his shoulders back. "Man, whoever's under there--props. That suit looks killer on you, but maan, you gotta be roasting."

You laugh--distorted low through the cowl. "It's snug."

Adrian steps closer, tapping your chest with the back of his knuckle. "Bet that thing's sticking to you in all the wrong places."

You lower the voice modulator. "It's me, man."

He pauses, then lets out a low whistle. "Rev? Holy shit."

You just laugh, tugging off the cowl with a crooked grin.

He claps you on the shoulder. "Been here a minute. This place is nuts."

You glance at him. "Catch the dare?"

His grin pulls wide under the mask. "Just the end. Enough to get me hooked. I want more."

"Hell of a scene." You say it like it's nothing. Like it didn't twist something inside.

She looked good like that--too good. The image won't leave you--his hands on her,

Gabby flushed, breathless, wanting. Not yours. You swallow hard and keep moving.

He chuckles. "Didn't expect you to go full incognito." He glances down with a smirk. "No wonder Gabby's so smitten with you--this suit's doing you favors I didn't even know were possible." Then, with a playful flex of his shoulders: "Meanwhile I look like I crawled out of a dungeon sex party. Let me take the heat for a bit--I could use the upgrade."

You glance at his outfit--open red jacket framing his bare chest, dark pants claw-torn at the knees, the whole look straight out of a feral fever dream.

"You sure you're not just trying to get me half-naked in public?"

Adrian gives you an exaggerated once-over. "Wouldn't be the worst thing."

You roll your eyes but grin. The cocktail still buzzes beneath your skin, every second daring you forward.

"Alright," you say, unlatching the cowl. "But if you rip the cape, I'm charging you."

"Deal." He steps closer, already loosening his gear. You shed the Batman suit, layer by layer, peeling away the armor to reveal your sweat-slicked skin beneath. Adrian hands you his gear, the jacket and torn pants, watching with an appreciative smirk. The difference is immediate--you slip into the cool fabric, raw and wild compared to the stifling Bat-gear. It clings in places you weren't expecting, just enough coverage to pass for decent. Barely.

"Damn, Rev," Adrian says, adjusting the cowl of your Batman suit. "You sure this fits you? I feel like I'm gonna bust a seam." He strikes a pose, cape swirling dramatically, and you have to admit--he pulls it off. The mask catches the light, anonymous and intimidating.

"Tight?" you scoff, fastening the last buckle. "Are you seeing what these pants do to me?"

Adrian laughs. "Tragic, really. I might never recover."

The jacket is still warm from his body, the soft inner lining brushing your skin as you shrug it into place. The metal clasps cinch along your torso, and the half-mask molds to your face with a sharp, animalistic curve. You clap Adrian on the shoulder with a grin.

"Well, good seeing you! I'm going to find Gabby--we should all do some shots!"

"Sounds good, man," Adrian replies, adjusting the cowl of the Batman suit. "I'll track y'all down. Can't let you have all the fun."

As you both step away from the floor, Adrian lingers for one last look.

"Think I spotted someone worth chasing," he says with a grin, voice low. "Kitten in black. Made a scene like it was on purpose. Tight. Trouble."

He couldn't mean... could he?

You chuckle. "Good luck."

"Oh, I don't need luck," he murmurs. "I just need a window."

You can feel the heat of the party--the way the jacket hangs open against your bare chest, each step sending a slow, taut pull through your body. The crowd shifts around you, a sea of pulsing bodies and flickering neon. You push forward, scanning for any sign of Gabby. The bass thrums in your ears, syncing with your heartbeat, your blood. Eyes dart from mask to mask--devils, angels, painted skin, bodies slick with sweat and glitter--but no sign of her. The music pounds, urgent and relentless. The cocktail still hums beneath your thoughts, turning the lights soft at the edges.

Just as you pivot toward the stairs, a warm body presses in close.

You slow--drawn off course by the brush of skin, the scent of sweat and perfume. A flicker of interest.

A woman--tall, curvy, wrapped in fishnet and black lace--glides in front of you, her hands trailing up your chest with lazy, claiming confidence. Tiny horns curl from her temple, half-obscured by a feathered masquerade mask. A velvet choker at her throat gleams in the light, the word Lust stitched in shimmering red thread. Deep crimson lace cuts high along her thighs, each step a tease. One thigh slips between yours, her hips rolling in rhythm with the music. Her eyes glint with mischief, her touch lingers, longer than it needs to be.

You hesitate, pulse quickening, your body answering before your mind catches up. Her scent--sweet, with a sharp edge--mingles with the lingering heat of the cocktail. You're buzzing. Floating.

You glance over your shoulder--still no Gabby.

The dancer leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"You don't seem like the type to just stand there," she says, already turning, hips beckoning. "Come on, show me."

You laugh, low and unsure--until her fingers find your wrist.

A soft tug. Just enough.

The music swells, her hips already swaying. Your body falls into step, caught in her gravity.

But even as you follow her lead, something flickers. A thought. A name.

Gabby.

Her hips roll against yours, friction sharp beneath the pulsing beat. Your fingers hover at her waist--uncertain, unsteady. The synthetic fabric of your new costume clings to your skin, heat and arousal heavy in the air.

She watches you through her mask, lips curled in a knowing smirk.

"You look tense," she murmurs, pressing closer. "Let me take that from you." Her breath brushes your collarbone.

Her fingers trail down your chest, pausing at the buckles across your torso. She moves slower now, her corset rigid against you, every motion deliberate, claiming space against you.

***

Somewhere across the house, behind a closed bathroom door, Gabby grips the porcelain sink with gloved hands. Her breath fogs the mirror, lips parted as she stares at her reflection--eyes wide, cheeks flushed, the Catwoman mask framing the heat still smoldering beneath her skin.

She doesn't recognize the woman staring back.

Her body still hums from the kiss--from the masked stranger's hands on her, mouth on her, taking without asking.

The way she let him.

The way she wanted him to.

And Rev... watching.

Her hand drifts lower, leather creaking faintly as her gloved fingers trace the curve of her waist, her hips. She's buzzing. The kiss won't leave her. The memory of that cold cybernetic grip. The press of his mouth, hard and sure, like he knew exactly what she needed.

She shouldn't still want it.

She shouldn't still crave the way it felt.

But her fingers linger, sliding between her thighs--then lower.

She never pulled the zipper back up. Maybe she forgot.

Maybe part of her just didn't want to.

The edge of her costume shifts, and she slips past it without thinking. Just enough. Just to feel. Heat sparks where she touches, sharp and aching, and her breath catches in her throat.

She leans forward, forehead pressing to the mirror, her other hand braced against the sink. Her body moves on instinct--hungry, reckless, lost in it.

No.

She rips her hand back like it burned her. The sudden absence aches.

Her stomach turns. The guilt hits hard--like cold water through fog.

She's gasping now, trembling.

This isn't her. It can't be.

She stares at her reflection. Breath hitching. Lips parted. Eyes wide with something she doesn't want to name.

Raw. Exposed.

Frustrated.

She still aches. Still wants.

She can't stop thinking about the kiss.

About him.

She's still waiting.

For Rev. For Batman.

For someone to take the choice from her again.

She still wants him.

But something sharper coils inside her--something reckless.

Then: a knock.

She tenses. Doesn't speak.

She doesn't speak. Doesn't move. Just stares at her reflection--flushed, wide-eyed, still trembling. Her breath fogs the glass. She wants to disappear into it.

Another knock--firmer. A shadow shifts beneath the door. She exhales, palms slick inside her gloves, and steps forward. She unlocks the door.

Standing there--filling the frame--is Batman.

The full suit. The cowl. Shoulders squared. Hands gloved and still at his sides. A silhouette pulled from her fantasies. A silent presence that smells like smoke, leather, and something darker.

Gabby's heart skips. Her fingers tighten on the doorknob.

Slowly, she steps back. Just enough to let him in.

The door clicks shut behind him.

She turns--eyes wide, breath catching--and throws herself into his arms.

"Babe..." she breathes against his chest, her voice unsteady.

Her gloved hands slide up his chest, gripping leather and molded armor, and she pulls him down into a kiss--needy, hot, desperate. Her lips crash into his, tongue brushing the edge of his mouth before he even has time to react.

For just a second, she feels clean again. No longer ashamed. Still trembling. Open and aching-- Like she was meant to fall apart this way for him.

She clings to the kiss like oxygen. Lets him take it. Take her. Her hips grind against the armor, chasing pressure without shame--desperate for the kind of relief that lets her forget who she is. Just heat. Just ache. Just him.

His touch feels urgent--hungrier than she expected. There's none of the usual teasing, the verbal play. Just silent command. She tells herself it's the costume, the voice, the atmosphere.

But something itches at the back of her mind.

Not fear. Not discomfort. Just... off.

His hands feel different. The way he grips her--firmer, more certain. No whispered nickname. Animalistic. He wants this.

It doesn't matter.

She doesn't need to think.

His presence answers everything her body's been begging for.

She leans in, sinking into the ache, carrying her deeper into his hands.

Maybe he's just worked up.

Maybe he saw too much. The kiss. The stranger. Her shame.

Maybe this is his answer.

***

You lose track of time.

Lust moves like liquid heat--pressing against you with every pulsing beat. Her hands are bold, fingertips trailing down your arms, across your chest, teasing the hem of your borrowed costume. Her lips graze your jaw once. Maybe twice. Her breath is hot and sweet. She never asks your name. She doesn't need to.

You let yourself move with her.

It's easier than thinking.

But as the second song fades into a third, something cuts through the haze. A flicker. Guilt? Restlessness? That low throb of unease you've been brushing aside?

You pull back slightly, scanning the crowd.

Still no sign of Gabby.

Not at the bar. Not near the stage. Not among the writhing bodies on the floor. The last time you saw her, she was flushed, wild-eyed, heading for the bathroom.

How long ago was that?

You blink. The music's too loud now. The lights too bright. Lust leans in to reclaim your attention, but something in you has already shifted. You force a smile, murmuring something vague-- "Be right back"--and slip away.

You weave through the thrumming mass of bodies, heat rising off the crowd like a second skin. The further you get from the dance floor, the darker and quieter it becomes--just the throb of bass and laughter unraveling in the dark behind you.

Upstairs, the air shifts. Heavier. Still thick with perfume and sweat, but quieter. Most of the doors are shut. A few hang ajar, just wide enough to reveal tangled limbs and the soft gleam of skin in low light. You pass them with quick glances--uneasy, searching.

Then a sound stops you cold.

A moan. Loud. Rhythmic.

Followed by a woman's voice--breathless, half-laughing, trembling with a kind of sweetness that makes your teeth grit.

You almost keep walking--until the next words hit:

"Oh god, babe... please not here..."

Then a deeper voice, warped and mechanical--low, rough, unmistakably confident:

"This ass is mine tonight."

You freeze.

The sound. The exact tone--how the distortion kicks in just a split-second too late, the mechanical edge curling at the end of each word--you've heard that before.

It's not just familiar.

It's yours. Your Batman voice mod.

You smirk to yourself--lucky bastard. Adrian always did land on his feet at parties. You take a step away, forcing yourself to keep walking.

But something tugs at you.

Not jealousy. Not really. Just a flicker of... curiosity. A crackle of unease you can't quite shake. Something about her voice.

Something about the way it hits you, low and wrong and far too deep.

You glance back at the door.

You try three doors--one's locked, another empty, but one creaks open.

Inside, it's dark. Heavy curtains swallow what little light seeps in. You pause in the doorway before stepping through. The door closes behind you with a quiet click. The music from downstairs fades to a distant thrum, the floor humming faintly beneath your boots.

A mirror waits across the room, half-fogged with condensation, like someone just stepped out. Warm amber light from a low lamp spills across the bed. The sheets are tousled. Perfume hangs in the air--floral, expensive, cloying.

You drift toward the mirror.

The costume fits--well, too well--but it's strange seeing yourself like this. Broad-shouldered. Fur-lined. A gleam of sweat on your collarbone. You tilt your head, studying the version of you in the glass.

This version of you looks different. Rougher. Looser.

Wilder.

You chuckle under your breath, dragging a hand through your hair. Christ. This party is messing with you.

Behind you, the door creaks--soft and slow.

You turn, expecting someone--but no one enters. Just faint movement--someone passing by?

You crack the door open again, stepping into the dim light of the corridor. Then you hear it.

The deep, modulated voice, rough and commanding:

"Tell me how good I feel inside you."

A pause.

Then a moan breaks the silence. "So deep... god, you're inside me so deep..."

Your breath catches -- you don't know what hits harder--the voice, or the way she moaned for it. You feel it in your stomach, in your throat--in the traitorous twitch of your cock.

You turn--fast.

Back through the hallway. Back toward the dance floor.

You need something to cut through this heat, this noise inside your skull.

Another drink. Something strong enough to burn.

You push through the crowd, the bass pulsing through your body like a second heartbeat. The bar is packed--masked figures pressed shoulder to shoulder, hands gripping glass or each other. The bartender, a man in nothing but a silver jockstrap and a Venetian mask, moves with practiced ease, pouring shots and mixing cocktails without breaking stride.

You squeeze in, leaning against the polished wood, catching the bartender's eye. He grins, setting a frosted glass in front of you before you even order.

"Looks like you could use something strong, Prince," he calls over the music, sliding it your way with a reassuring smile.

You pick it up without question. The drink is clear, brutal, and mercifully unsweet. No citrus, no garnish--just alcohol, biting cold and clean. You knock it back, the burn cutting through the haze, burning a line straight down your throat and into your chest.

The bartender smirks and moves on. You're left with the buzz in your blood, the thrum of the music, and the endless, swirling crowd.

That's when she appears.

A woman slides in beside you at the bar--tall, wrapped in black lace and fishnet, curves poured into deep crimson. Her mask is feathered and decadent, her smile slow and knowing. She smells like vanilla and smoke. Her voice, when it comes, is a purr. Lust.

"You look like a man with too much on his mind," she says, lips curling around the words like they're a secret just for you.

You give a low chuckle. "Something like that."

She taps the bar. "Two more of what he's having," she tells the bartender, then turns back to you, eyes flicking over your frame like a slow appraisal. "You alone tonight?"

You hesitate.

"I wasn't," you say finally. "Came here with my wife."

She tilts her head, lips curling in a slow, amused smile. "And where's the lucky lady now?"

You shrug, tapping your fingers against the bar. "She slipped off after the contest."

A flash of that moan--the sound of it--cuts through the noise.

It makes you picture, Gabby bent over, naked in front of you. God, you just wanted to find her. To make her sound like that.

She hums--slow, thoughtful--her fingers trailing along the rim of her glass. "Shame. Sounds like she left you all alone... dressed like that."

Her gaze flicks over you--mask to chest to hips--lingering a little too long where your pants have grown tight.

"Must be hard. Not knowing where she is."

You nod once, the knot in your stomach twisting tighter. "Yeah. It is."

Lust leans in, voice dropping low, velvety, close enough to warm your ear.

"Or maybe it's exciting. A party like this... masks on, inhibitions off. You never know who she'll run into."

Her gaze drops, lingers--knowing. "Maybe your wandering wife found someone first."

You shift, heat prickling under your collar. The thought hits low, unwelcome... but not unfamiliar.

You knock back your drink instead of answering. The burn is easier to manage.

She lifts her glass, watching you over the rim.

"To wandering wives," she says, voice honeyed, "and the trouble we find while chasing after them."

The toast lands heavy. You raise your own glass in answer. Clink.

You let the drink settle, the fire in your throat doing nothing for the one below it.

"This party's trouble," you mutter. "It found me."

She leans in, slow and sinuous, until the scent of her wraps around you--rose and smoke, sweet with a bite.

"Maybe that's the point," she murmurs, lips parting just enough to tease the rim of her glass. "Some things are meant to find you."

Your breath slips out in a rough exhale. "This party's doing things to me."

Her smile curves, lush and knowing. "Maybe you should let it take you."

She turns, resting an elbow on the bar, her body angled toward yours--casual, but inviting. Her other hand idly stirs her drink with a slender finger.

"You don't seem too worried," she says, voice velvet-soft, her gaze drifting to your chest, then back to your eyes. "Most men I meet who lose their wives at a party like this... don't stay at the bar."

You swallow.

"I trust her," you say. The words come quieter than you mean them to. Not because they're a lie--but because you need them to be true. Because you want to believe in that trust more than you actually do.

And yet... with the way Lust's gaze lingers, with the heat coiling in your gut--you wonder if maybe it's not just your faith in Gabby you're trying to protect. Maybe it's your own.

Lust smiles at that--slow and knowing. "Good men are rare," she says, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "But rare doesn't mean untouchable."

She sets her glass down and lets her fingers graze my arm--light, like a question left unanswered.

The beat drops. The crowd behind us roars.

She leans close again, voice just for me now. "If it were me, you came here with... I wouldn't leave your side." Her fingers curl around your wrist--light, but insistent.

"Come on," she says, tugging you just a little closer. "You're too convincing like this. People might start to believe you bite."

You let her pull you away from the bar and into the tide of moving bodies. The dance floor is a crush of skin and rhythm, heat and hunger. She turns to face you, hips already rolling, one hand settling on your chest. You move with her, the music drowning out thought. Every sway of her body against yours stirs something low and coiled inside you.

She leans in, her lips dangerously close to your ear.

"I could be her, just for a moment."

Her breath brushes your skin. "Wouldn't that be easier?"

You don't move. Don't answer.

She exhales softly--almost a pout. "Shame. I was hoping you'd bite back."

You can't answer. Not because you don't--but because right now, all you can think about is Gabby. Her mask. Her lips. Her hips rolling in that skintight suit. You imagine her body... and then someone else's hands on it. But it's still her.

Still yours.

Isn't she?

***

Gabby lies back on the bed, leather creaking softly beneath her.

She's still buzzing from the dare--flushed, breathless, the ghost of that kiss tingling on her lips--the taste of someone else's mouth still lingering. But what lingers more is the way he had watched her. Silent. Still. Masked.

He hadn't stopped her. Hadn't pulled her away. Hadn't even looked upset.

That did something to her.

Worse, maybe. But hotter.

Now he's here--above her, hands on her hips, claiming what's his. And that shared, charged silence between them still hums in her chest.

The room's dim light makes Batman's silhouette imposing as he leans over her. His gloved hands slide down her sides, tracing the curve of her hips before gripping them possessively. She gasps, her fingers curling into the sheets.

Gabby's breath catches, her head tipping back. "So big... you're stretching me so wide," she gasps, the words torn from her throat in a shudder.

But it's not quite the stretch she remembers. Not the way he usually fills her--full, relentless, perfect. She shifts her hips, trying to find it--more, deeper--something that feels like him.

His grip on her hips tightens, dragging her down to meet him, deeper. "That's it," he growls, voice thick with dark heat. "Let me hear you."

She moans again--louder, rawer--her back arching off the bed. The press of leather on skin sharpens every thrust, each movement a maddening blend of pressure, friction, and heat.

Her breasts fight the half-zipped leather, threatening to spill free with every thrust--exposed by a zipper left low enough for greedy hands. The other end gapes between her thighs, leather framing bare skin, parted just enough to let him take what he wants.

The creak of her catsuit mixes with the rustle of sheets as she instinctively reaches for her mask.

A gloved hand stops her--firm, silent, and not quite how she remembers.

"Leave it on," he growls through the modulator--low, gravelly, commanding. "I want to fuck you just like this."

Her breath catches.

Something about the voice, the presence, sends a thrill straight through her. The weight of his suit pressing into hers, the way the mask conceals all but his mouth--it's intoxicating. Anonymous. Raw. She nods wordlessly.

Then he's on her, rougher now, hands roaming her body like he owns it. Leather meets leather, the friction maddening. Her back arches, her gloved hands gripping the sheets as he pushes her legs apart and slides into her--stretching her, filling her, too much to stop. She gasps, biting her lip.

Something primal builds inside her, tightening with every thrust.

His hips drive into hers with sharp, deliberate force. Each thrust steals her breath. Her costume creaks beneath him, trapping heat, heightening sensation. Her breasts strain against the unzipped V of her suit. He pins her wrists to the bed above her head, voice low and electric in her ear.

"You're so fucking tight. I'm about to destroy you."

The words slam into her, hard and hot.

"Yes," she moans, desperate. "Don't stop. Just fuck me--hard."

And he does. The rhythm turns relentless--each stroke precise, punishing, perfect. She's panting now, twisting beneath him, chasing the edge. When it finally breaks, it hits like a wave--her orgasm tearing through her in a shuddering, breathless cry. But he doesn't stop. He keeps going, driving into her through aftershocks that make her shudder. His pace slows, becomes more deliberate, like he's savoring every moment. Her skin feels hypersensitive where the leather rubs against her, every movement of his hips sending fresh jolts through her over sensitized nerves.

"Again," he commands, voice rough with exertion. "Come for me again." She writhes beneath him, her body responding to his words like they're the only thing that matters. The pressure builds, coiling inside her until she's gasping, moaning, pleading. Her nails dig into his shoulders through the suit. "Please," she begs, voice broken. "I'm so close..." His grip on her hips tightens bruisingly. "Then come," he growls. "Let me feel it." With a strangled cry, she does. Her body clenches around him, the second orgasm even more intense than the first. Her second orgasm fades, leaving her limp, panting beneath him. But he doesn't stop. His hands tighten, shifting her, guiding her onto all fours. Her arms tremble. Her breath hitches again when she feels his cock press against her other entrance. He's still hard--slick from her.

"Wait," she gasps, already trembling. "Oh god, babe... please not here..."

He doesn't stop.

Something twists in her chest. He never ignores her like this. Not completely. Maybe he's just too far gone. The thrill of the dare. The kiss with that stranger. Maybe this is what she unleashed.

One hand grips her hip. The other presses between her shoulders, urging her lower, deeper into the mattress. The voice that follows is low, modulated, and utterly sure of itself:

"This ass is mine tonight."

The words make her gasp. He pushes in--thick, deep, fast. Too fast. Her breath catches. It's always been good between them, but this feels... different. A little rougher. A little less careful. She gasps, clinging tighter. Her mouth falls open as her body is forced to take him, inch by inch, stretching around the burn and pressure. She shudders violently.

It still hurts, but it doesn't fill her the same. Somehow, it's easier--easier to take, easier to crave. The stretch still stings, but it's laced with something sweeter now. Her body clings to him greedily, her ass aching for every thrust like it's been waiting for this all night.

Her fingers curl into the sheets. The heat in her core hasn't faded--it's only twisted into something sharper. Dirtier. Her knees slip wider apart as he begins to move--steady, powerful, each thrust sending fresh sparks of sensation through her already spent body.

The leather of her suit creaks with every movement. Her breath stutters with each impact, the pressure building again far too fast.

He groans behind her. His gloved hands grip her hips with bruising force, dragging her back to meet every thrust.

Her mask shifts on her face, slick with sweat. Strands of damp hair cling to her jaw, catching at the edge of her mask. She can't think--can barely speak. But her body knows exactly what to do.

He leans forward, the cowl brushing her cheek, and growls into her ear:

"Tell me how good I feel inside you."

She chokes on a moan, her voice trembling as it spills out of her.

"Fucking amazing," she breathes. "So deep... god, you're inside me so deep..."

"Yeah," he growls. "Take it. Let me hear you."

He slams into her, again and again, filling her completely, the room echoing with the rhythm of wet skin and stifled moans. Her body rocks forward with every thrust, her thighs shaking, her hands gripping the bedframe now just to hold on.

"God--yes--please," she cries. "Don't stop..."

"Didn't expect you to be this ready."

His hips piston faster, his breath ragged through the modulator. "Such a filthy little slut," he snarls. "This willing ass was molded for cock."

The words hit like ice, jagged and raw. They shouldn't exist. Not like that. Not so filthy. Not so wrong. Not from him. And yet--it made her wetter. The depravity of it, the way he reduces her to nothing but want, makes her his. She should be ashamed. She should feel used. But instead, her breath hitches and her hips roll back to meet him again. She moans, desperate for more.

She screams through clenched teeth, another orgasm rising from deep inside, violent and unstoppable. She collapses forward, her forehead pressing into the mattress, body shuddering under the force of her third climax. Her hands, still locked in the sheets, tremble violently. She can't think--can't do anything but take the relentless pace he sets. The burn has faded, replaced by something hotter, deeper. A desperate, aching pleasure that makes her toes curl and her thighs quiver.

His grip on her hips tightens, his pace turning brutal. The thick length of him stretches her completely, filling her in a way that steals her breath. The leather of his suit rubs against her back, the ridges of the mask grazing her shoulder. He's close--she can feel it in the way his thrusts turn erratic, in the way his breath hitches. "Fuck," he growls, voice distorted but raw with need. "You're taking it all. Every inch. Like you were made for this."

She tells herself it's Rev. It has to be. But something about him feels wrong. And at this point... she's not sure it matters.

Gabby's body jolts with every thrust, breath catching, arms trembling as she grips the sheets. Her forehead presses into the mattress, gasping, moaning, already strung tight. Then it hits--sharp and sudden--another orgasm crashing through her like a wave. She cries out, back arching, clenching hard around him as her vision sparks white. She's still shaking, still pulsing around him, breath ragged as pleasure ripples through her in aftershocks.

She's somewhere between sensation and surrender--completely consumed, letting the rhythm of his body take hers.

But something shifts.

A flicker at the edge of her senses. A presence.

She lifts her head, breath catching.

A man is standing in the doorway.

Unmasked. Still. Watching.

She hadn't heard the door open. Hadn't noticed when he arrived. She'd been too far gone--too caught in the pounding of hips and the heat flooding her body.

Her eyes lock with his.

Her heart stops.

The stranger tilts his head, gaze roaming down her exposed body, her quivering thighs, the way her ass is still stretched around the cock buried in her.

Then, voice casual, low: "Room for one more?"

She stiffens--shocked. Her body clenches around him, tight and involuntary, a slick gush spilling from below, betraying just how ready she is.

But before she can speak--before she even has the breath to answer--Batman grunts behind her, not slowing.

"Go ahead."

Gabby freezes.

She hadn't expected that--hadn't expected him to say yes. Not so quickly. Not so easily.

A flicker of confusion pulses through her chest, tangled with something darker--something hotter. Was that really Rev under the mask? Or had the dare stirred something in him... something he hadn't shown before?

She doesn't get time to dwell.

The stranger steps forward. His movements are deliberate, his presence filling the space. His eyes never leave hers, gaze sharp and hungry.

Behind her, Batman's thrusts slow--just slightly--savoring the moment, dragging it out. The steady push into her ass stays deep and unrelenting, the thick pressure stealing her breath. The burn is still there--sharp, intimate--but blurred now by the molten pleasure coiling low in her belly. His grip on her hips tightens, holding her steady as her body trembles between pain and ecstasy.

In front of her, the stranger steps closer. She can smell him--clean sweat, cologne, heat.

This is happening.

There's no turning back now.

He reaches for his belt, never breaking eye contact. His smile is slow, knowing, as he unbuckles. His cock springs free--thick, heavy, already hard. He strokes himself once... twice... then moves in.

Gabby lifts her head. Her lips part.

Something about this feels unreal. Like a fantasy she never meant to chase--let alone welcome. She doesn't know if it's madness or instinct guiding her, only that she wants this. Wants him as well.

She leans forward, wrapping her mouth around the head of his cock. Her lips seal tight, a soft moan vibrating in her throat as she takes him deeper, inch by inch, adjusting to the weight of him.

"Fuck," he mutters, voice rough. "You look so good like this."

He exhales, a rough sound of satisfaction, his fingers tightening at the back of her head.

She's overwhelmed.

The pressure of two men. One stretching her from behind, the other thick on her tongue--her body burning at both ends. Every breath hitches. Every nerve sparks. And somewhere in the chaos of it all... she realizes she wants this.

Badly.

Batman's grip tightens.

His thrusts turn rough--brutal even--his pace no longer teasing, no longer patient. It's all force now, hips slamming into her with raw purpose, driving into her ass with heavy, possessive rhythm.

Gabby gasps around the cock in her mouth, her moan vibrating through the stranger's length. The sensation draws a curse from him--one hand fisting tighter in her hair, the other stroking himself, matching the rhythm of Batman's punishing thrusts.

She's caught between them. Used. Claimed. The heat builds again--unbearable, unstoppable.

Then Batman growls. A low, distorted snarl that shakes through her.

"Take it," he spits. "Fucking take every drop."

He slams into her one last time--deep, hard--his body locking tight against hers. She feels it all: the twitch, the throb, the flood of release. The quake in her knees as her body buckles under the force of it.

He stays there a moment, buried to the hilt, breathing hard.

Then, without a word, he pulls out.

She gasps, the sudden emptiness making her whimper.

A thick warmth lingers deep in her ass, unmistakable. She shifts--and it leaks out: slick, slow, trailing down the inside of her thigh.

Gabby starts to turn, to speak--something. But he's already moving.

Batman zips himself up. Adjusts his gloves. No kiss. No whisper. No final touch.

Just a glance--brief, unreadable, but something flickers beneath it--then he disappears into the dim hallway.

Gone.

Gabby stays there, frozen. Her chest rises and falls in shallow gasps. Her ass aches. Her thighs are trembling. Her lips are still wrapped around the other man's cock, now slick and pulsing in her mouth.

Her heart hammers--a frantic, uneven rhythm to match her thoughts.

What was Rev doing?

She's still on her knees. Still full. Still unsure if she wants to know who he is.

The room is quiet but for her breathing--fast, shallow, uneven.

Her skin prickles. Her body doesn't know whether to flinch or lean in.

The question slams into her, twisting inside her chest. And the not-knowing sends a strange thrill down her spine--a mix of fear and something hotter, darker.

The stranger brushes a thumb over her cheek, voice low and amused.

"Looks like it's just us now."

***

You sway to the beat; Lust's body presses against yours in perfect sync. The heat of her costume seeps through to your skin, the scent of rose and smoke curling around you like a spell. Every brush of her hips, every glide of her thighs against yours, sends another pulse of warmth spiraling outward.

Your drink is half gone, the alcohol humming low in your bloodstream, softening the edges of everything--your focus, your restraint.

"You're a lot more fun than I thought you'd be," she purrs, lips brushing your ear.

"For a married man."

You let out a low breath--tight, reluctant. You still can't quite look away from the way she moves.

"Maybe I'm just a man who knows how lucky he is."

Her gloved fingers skim down your chest, toying with the edge of your costume.

"Is that so?" she murmurs, tilting her head up. The gold edges of her mask catch the light.

"Then why aren't you looking for her?"

You can't answer right away.

Because she's right.

Because you should be looking for Gabby.

But Lust's body is pressed against yours, her breath warm on your jaw, her hips moving in time with the music. The cocktail still hums through your veins like a second pulse. That damn drink--whatever was in it--left you buzzing, your thoughts slippery at the edges. Everything feels a little slow. A little sweet. A little dangerous.

"I was looking," you murmur. "Then I started feeling... off."

Her golden eyes glint behind the mask. "Off?" she repeats, voice like smoke and silk. Her fingers graze the edge of your costume, slow and deliberate.

You shrug, managing a faint smile. "Buzzed. Distracted. Maybe a little hypnotized."

"By me?"

You smirk. "By the atmosphere."

She hums at that, clearly unconvinced--but doesn't press. Instead, her fingers glide down your side, pulling you just a little closer.

"So what now? You going to keep dancing with a stranger... or go find the woman you love?"

That hits hard.

Gabby.

Your wife.

Her name crashes through the fog like a bell. You see her again in your mind--lips parted, that teasing glint in her eyes during the dare. Her hips in that catsuit. The way she moved like she knew exactly what she was doing to you.

You swallow, a flicker of unease cutting through the haze.

"I need to find her," you say, mostly to yourself.

Lust steps back, graceful and smug, like she'd been expecting that answer all along.

"Your loss, prince. But don't take too long... she might not be waiting."

Gabby. Where the hell are you?

You're just about to slip away, the music swelling around you, the crowd folding in like waves. Each step feels sharper, more focused. Faces blur past--meaningless. But that pounding in your chest? That's real. That's her.

You barely take another breath when--

"Yo!"

A voice--distorted, amused, too familiar--punches through the noise.

You turn, and there he is: Batman. Adrian's stride gives him away even in costume, his cowl tilted just off-center as he weaves through the crowd with a crooked grin. He tugs the mask off as he reaches you--sweat-mussed hair, flushed cheeks, eyes bright with something just shy of manic.

"There you are," he says, breathless. "This party's wild."

You narrow your eyes. "Yeah. I heard you upstairs. One of the bedrooms."

He freezes--just a beat--then laughs, rubbing a hand down his face.

"No shit? You caught that?" He shakes his head, still grinning. "That wasn't even the beginning. Chick jumped me in the bathroom before that. Full costume, voice modulator--didn't say a word. Just grabbed me."

"She didn't even give her name," he goes on, practically glowing. "Didn't care. Just wanted it. And hey--" his grin sharpens, "I gave her exactly what she wanted."

You force a laugh, trying to keep it light.

"Glad you're having fun. I still haven't found Gabby... I wanna give her exactly what I want."

He chuckles, and you do too--just enough to keep pace.

But the echo of it sticks.

Some girl grabbed him. Bold. Wild. Unbothered.

No names. No hesitation. Just fun.

Took what she wanted, right out in the open.

When was the last time you and Gabby had a moment like that?

You shake the thought off.

Gabby's not like that.

Gabby's yours.

Adrian pulls at the waistband, grimacing.

"Jesus, man. I don't know how you were planning on wearing this all night. I feel like my balls are in a vice."

You laugh, but it's short. "Yeah. Not built for comfort."

He adjusts the utility belt with a sigh. "Still, kind of works for me, right? I make this look good."

You glance at him--sweaty, flushed, still grinning like he's riding a high--and force a smile.

"Sure. Own it while you can, Batman."

You nudge the cowl back into place with two fingers, eyeing him. "That suit better not be covered in mystery fluids."

Adrian barks a laugh. "Hey, I'm not a savage. Everything stayed mostly contained."

You raise a brow. "Mostly...?"

Before he can answer, a slow, sultry voice cuts in behind you.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. If anything did drip, it wasn't from him."

Lust steps into the circle with that lazy, predatory sway, eyes glinting behind her gold-edged mask.

"Come on," she purrs. "I've got to hear more."

She grabs both your wrists--light, playful, but impossible to ignore--and starts dragging you off the dance floor like you're part of the entertainment.

Over her shoulder, you catch Adrian's wide-eyed stare.

You have got to tell me what this is about, he mouths.

Lust throws a glance over her shoulder as she guides you into a quieter alcove, her smirk deepening when she sees Adrian still watching. She lets go of your wrist just long enough to turn, arms folding under her chest, hip cocked.

"So much tension and still no one knows what to do with me?" she purrs, eyes gleaming behind that gold-edged mask as her gaze settles on you. ""Tsk. Lucky me, center stage with no choreography. I was hoping for something more... rehearsed."

Adrian smirks, chest puffed like he's proud of whatever mischief she's already imagining. "Not my style. Plus, I already got what I wanted."

You shoot him a look. "You're really proud of that mystery girl, huh?"

He grins wider. "Dude. She didn't even tell me her name. Just--bam. Grabbed me. Voice modulator and everything. Like full Catwoman fantasy. Wild."

The word Catwoman lands like a pin drop in your chest.

You mask your reaction, but your gut tightens--too sharp, too specific.

Lust hums like she's savoring the tension. "Catwoman, huh?"

You huff a laugh. "Guess I should've slapped a name tag on her."

Adrian barks a laugh, totally oblivious. "No way. Shit. That's a crazy coincidence."

He grins and shakes his head. "If Gabby's rockin' the same catsuit with that kind of confidence? Now I'm wondering what kind of freak you've been hiding."

You try for a laugh, but it dies somewhere in your throat.

Too much heat.

Too many thoughts, none of them helpful.

Adrian says something, all swagger and oblivious charm, but it barely lands. You're barely here.

Your skin feels too tight, your heart hammering against your ribs. Her voice still lingers, velvet and smoke, curling around the back of your neck. That costume. That confidence. That dare.

And the way Adrian smiled when he said she didn't even give her name.

You swallow down the burn rising in your chest. And lower.

"Right. I need to find Gabby."

Adrian gives a low whistle. Lust folds her arms, gold-edged mask gleaming, and smirks as you step past.

"Run along," she hums, tracing a slow line in the air. "Wouldn't want to miss the moment everything breaks."

You don't look back.

The hallway stretches like a hunting ground, shadows twitching with every pulse of bass. You stalk through it, boots thudding, belt slung low like a warning. Velvet clings to sweat-slick skin, your chest exposed, breath dragging rough through teeth you swear feel sharper. The mask snarls over half your face, but it's not hiding anything--it's announcing what's coming.

Every brush of skin against yours is a spark in dry grass.

You're angry. Burning. Your jaw clenches, your fists flex--and still, impossibly, you're hard. The kind of hard that doesn't make sense. Not here. Not now. Not why. And yet the leather and metal barely hold it back. The pressure builds behind your zipper like it wants to tear through you--sharp, constant, brutal. Almost painful.

You push through the crowd, eyes sweeping the dance floor one last time.

No black leather. No cat ears. No familiar glint behind a mask. Just strangers--laughing, grinding, vanishing into shadows. You search faces, body shapes, anything that might be her.

Nothing.

She's not here.

That leaves upstairs.

Your stomach tightens as you reach the base of the stairs. You plant your hand on the railing, knuckles white.

Then you hear it.

Low at first, buried beneath the bass and the blood in your ears. But it builds as you climb, each step sharpening the sound until there's no mistaking it.

Moaning.

Wet, wanton, desperate.

And beneath it--slap. slap. slap.

Over and over. Relentless. Flesh on flesh, echoing down the hall like a metronome from hell. The tempo doesn't falter, doesn't pause, doesn't stop.

You see them as you walk up the stairs.

You reach the landing. The hallway is dim, shadows twitching with every pulse of bass, but it's alive--men shifting, murmuring, laughing low under their breath. A loose line spills from one of the open bedroom doors, some leaning against the wall, others pacing like they're waiting their turn. The air is thick with heat, with noise, with need.

The door is ajar.

And the sound--God--the sound spills out like smoke: moans rising, slaps hitting faster, wet and raw and relentless. Someone groans inside, deep and guttural.

You don't breathe.

Not until someone speaks.

A guy a few steps ahead leans toward one of the others, voice pitched just above the bass-heavy thrum.

"This the line or what?"

Another man chuckles, jerking his head toward the open door. "Yeah. For Catwoman."

Someone else murmurs, "She'll take anything. Doesn't even slow down. Just begs for more."

You blink. You didn't hear that. Couldn't have.

But it's there--echoing, sinking claws into your spine.

Catwoman.

Your stomach flips. Heat rushes to your face, your jaw clenches, your lungs seize.

No air. No anchor. Just that name, still ringing.

It shouldn't be her. It can't be.

And yet your body betrays you--heart racing, blood rushing hot and thick through your veins. Confusion, fear, jealousy... arousal. All tangled and climbing over each other until it's hard to tell one from the next.

You step forward, needing to see. Needing to know.

A hand presses against your chest.

"Wait your turn," a man says flatly, not unkind, but firm. Like this is just how things work here.

The door creaks wider. The line ahead of you shifts.

Another moan slips through--wet, breathless, wrecked.

Your pulse stops.

It's not just any voice.

It's hers.

Moaning. Shaking. Unmistakable.

Coming apart on someone else's cock--

and the only thing you hear is her voice.

***

Behind her, the door had creaked open.

Someone had left.

He had left. Gabby blinks, her breath still catching, her body still trembling from what they'd just done. The stranger is still holding her head in place, silent. So is she.

But the absence is unmistakable--gaping, cold. He walked out. No kiss. No whisper. No goodbye.

Her fingers curl into the sheets, the leather creaking faintly as her body shifts. Her pulse thunders in her ears. The air smells like sex and sweat--and something darker.

Rev wouldn't have left her like that. He wouldn't. Would he?

A hand touches her shoulder--rougher now.

The stranger is still hard, still watching her like she's something meant to be taken.

He brushes a thumb over her cheek, voice low and amused. "Looks like it's just us now."

The man pulls from her mouth, shifting like he's ready for more.

Is this what Rev wants?

He wanted her fall apart for someone else. And then he left her to it.

If he wanted to stop it, he would have. But he didn't.

She should pull away. Say no. Find her husband. Get answers.

But instead-- She exhales slowly, deliberately.

Her body still hums with leftover heat, her thighs slick with sweat and other things. The arousal hasn't faded--it's just shifted. Twisted into something messier.

A flicker of defiance tightens in her chest. Maybe it's spite. Maybe it's something else--something heavier.

Still, she aches where he touched her, heat pooling low and insistent.

And maybe... maybe part of her doesn't want it to.

She shifts her weight, arching her back just slightly--an invitation.

Behind her, the mattress creaks as the stranger moves closer.

The stranger doesn't wait for permission.

With one slow, deliberate thrust, he pushes inside her. Gabby's breath stutters, her fingers digging into the sheets as her body stretches around him. He's thick, and the angle is deep--every inch of him pressing into her, filling her completely. Her back arches involuntarily, a strangled moan slipping from her throat. The leather of her catsuit creaks, the tight material hugging her curves as she moves, her hips instinctively tilting to take him deeper.

He groans behind her, a low, husky sound that vibrates through her skin. His hands tighten on her hips, holding her in place as he begins to move. The pace is slow at first--controlled, precise--the way her body reacts to him is undeniable. Her thoughts are a mess, but her body knows exactly what it wants--wet, aching, clenching around him with every thrust. There's movement behind her--subtle at first. A shuffle of feet. Then another. The quiet tread of boots against the floorboards, a belt buckle clinking faintly, a low voice murmuring something she can't quite make out. More than one. She hears them before she sees anything --and knows they're not here to stop it.

She doesn't turn around. She doesn't have to.

The energy in the room has shifted--thicker, heavier. Charged. Someone else is there. Maybe more than one. Watching. Waiting. A man steps closer, pants already lowered, his cock half-hard and twitching.

Am I really going through with this? Gabby wonders. Rev left. Now it's two. How many more will I let touch me? How many more before I stop pretending this isn't what I want?

She opens her mouth once again. He pushes inside, and the moment his cock fills her mouth, she moans. The sound vibrates through him, and he groans, both hands gripping the back of her head, steadying himself. She swallows around him, her throat tightening, and he moans through his teeth, hips twitching forward almost involuntarily.

Gabby doesn't resist. Her body is still humming, still pulsing with a need she hasn't quite let go of. She bobs her head, taking him deeper, her lips sealing around his shaft, her gloved hands gripping his thighs for balance. The stretch in her throat burns, but she doesn't pull away--if anything, she takes him deeper, relishing the way he groans, the way his fingers tighten in her hair.

The two men begin to move in sync, alternating their thrusts--pushing her deeper onto the one in front. Her hand brushes against someone else--

Another.

Before she can process it, fingers curl around her wrist, guiding her to another cock, already hard. She doesn't fight it. Maybe she should. Maybe she will--after. But her body's already moving, already opening.

The rhythmic pressure builds inside her, thickening like heat beneath her skin until every touch sends sparks flickering through her nerves. There's too much. Too many hands. Too many voices. But her body doesn't care. The man in her mouth groans louder, hips twitching forward almost involuntarily as she swallows around him. His fingers tighten in her hair--not quite painful, just efficient. Guiding--just enough to move her. No tenderness. No pause. Just need.

She loses herself in the motion, in the sounds that spill from his throat, in the heavy thickness stretching her mouth and throat. The ache between her legs is already fading, replaced by a growing pressure that makes her thighs quiver. The man behind her shifts, adjusting his angle, and every nerve ending in her body lights up at the new friction. She gasps around the cock in her mouth as he hits a spot that sends lightning through her core. Her hand clenches on his thigh, nails digging into the fabric of the bed as she arches back into the thrust behind her. The man in her mouth quickens, she knows what coming. She feels it before he even moves--his hips jerk forward, and the thick head of his cock slides down her throat. Her body reacts instinctively, swallowing around him, her throat tightening to keep him buried. He groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through her skull, his hands tightening in her hair as he pulses hot and thick down her throat.

She holds him there, swallowing again and again, wringing every drop from him. His body tenses beneath her grip, trembling as he empties into her. He trembles, his body quaking with release, and she hums slightly, her lips still sealed around him. His breath is ragged, his thighs shaking as he struggles to stay upright.

Behind her, the other man doesn't slow. If anything, he moves faster, his thrusts deeper, his grip bruising on her hips.

More footsteps.

She hears the floor creak again. Feels it--closer this time. A shift in the air. Heavier. Intentional.

Something twists low in her stomach.

"Of course you're here."

The voice cuts through the haze--low, dry, threaded with amusement.

Her head lifts just slightly, instinctively, the name caught on her lips.

The Cyborg.

He laughs, the sound sharp and knowing. "Didn't take long, did it?"

She blinks, pulse stuttering--then arches again as the man behind her drives deeper, dragging her back into the rhythm.

The Cyborg steps closer. Heavy boots on hardwood. He doesn't stop.

"Move."

A hand grips the shoulder of the man in front of her--the one still twitching with aftershocks. The Cyborg shoves him aside with casual force, sending him stumbling back against the wall.

"My turn."

Gabby barely has time to inhale.

"Swallow all of it," he adds, cool and dismissive. "I don't want someone else's mess on my cock."

Her breath catches. Her mind spins. But her mouth moves--obeying before she can think. He doesn't wait. Just slides in--thick, unforgiving, immediate. His girth fills her mouth, stretching her jaw, hitting the back of her throat. She doesn't know if she's gagging or gasping. Or both. She tries to relax, to breathe through her nose, but he's already moving--hard, unrelenting thrusts that force his length deeper than she can take. Her throat burns, her eyes water, but she can't tell if it's him or the other man behind her, still pounding into her with relentless rhythm.

The Cyborg grips her hair, tugging sharply as he sets his pace.

"Fuck. Take it like a good girl."

She moans around him, the sound muffled but unmistakable. Her body trembles, split between pleasure and pain--between two cocks stretching her past what she thought possible.

He doesn't let up. Doesn't slow down. His hips snap forward with brutal force, driving his length down her throat until she gasps for air in the brief moments he pulls back. Her gloved fingers are still wrapped around the cock in her right hand, stroking in time with the thrusts.

Another body approaches from the left, a new cock brushing her other palm. She barely has time to glance over before he places her hand where he wants it.

She wraps her fingers around him on instinct, her wrists now busy, pinned between bodies. The man behind her shifts, repositioning his grip--and then he drives into her with a new intensity. Harder. Deeper. No longer holding back.

She feels the guy behind her tense, his grip on her hips tightening as he drives into her with more force. His thrusts turn rough, almost punishing, his breath ragged and hot against her shoulder. The leather of her catsuit creaks as she arches deeper, her body instinctively bracing for what's coming.

He slams into her one final time, burying himself to the hilt. Her throat clenches around the Cyborg's cock as she gasps for air. The man behind her trembles, groaning low and ragged, his grip on her hips bruising. Hot release floods into her, deep and pulsing, and still he thrusts--relentless, emptying himself until her body can't take anymore.

She can feel the warm spunk leaking out of her. She can feel warmth leaking from her, dripping from every aching hole. Used. Flooded. Claimed. She's never been this filthy. She's never felt so alive.

Three men. Three places. Every aching hole dripping. The realization--the shame of it, the thrill of it--makes her tremble.

One of the men in her hand lies back, guiding her on top of him. She doesn't hesitate--sliding down with practiced ease, her body already slick from everything before. The Cyborg groans, clearly pleased with the new angle. He doesn't miss a beat, shifting to keep her throat occupied.

Gabby gasps, the dual rhythm overwhelming, her limbs trembling with the effort of holding herself up. Every movement seems to echo louder now. The wet slap of skin, the ragged breath behind her ears, the growing tightness winding inside her. Her body responds on instinct--too sensitive, too raw--but it doesn't stop her.

Another climax tears through her before she can brace for it, arching her spine as she rides it out.

There are too many hands now. Too many voices. She can't keep track of who's where, or how many cocks she's wrapped around. The heat of it all is dizzying--wet, slick, endless. Every breath feels stolen, every sound warps into heat and pressure. She doesn't know who she's moaning for--only that it isn't enough.

And through the haze, she realizes--this isn't just overwhelming. It's perfect. She wants more.

Her muffled cries are swallowed whole, but the others feel the ripple she sends through the room. One of them tightens his grip, pushing deeper. Another groans as she tenses around him. The Cyborg finishes again with a guttural sound, his release sending her choking briefly--then swallowing around him out of reflex, her throat tightening with each pulse.

He pulls back slowly, but only for a moment.

"I can keep going," he says, voice low and steady. "And I don't want to wait anymore."

A pause, then a smirk.

"Guess I'm getting messy after all," he mutters, more amused than concerned.

"Don't even know whose cum I'm about to fuck you with."

He slides into place behind her, hands rough on her hips.

Gabby stiffens--just for a heartbeat. The realization hits her all at once: this would be her first time like this. Two men. One in front, one behind. It's the kind of thing she used to joke about in hushed tones. A fantasy filed under "maybe someday".

But someday is now.

And her body is already so open, so spent and slick, that there's no resistance left. Just heat. Just aching hunger. Just the mindless pull of pleasure that's swallowed everything else whole. He presses against her backside--steady, sure, like her body's an invitation he knows how to read.

Somewhere, beneath the haze and heat, her mind rebels. But her body--traitorous, eager--knows what's coming, and welcomes it. She arches back, hips tilting just enough to offer him space. Just enough to answer the unspoken question his hands are asking.

Her thoughts scream to make sense of it all--to slow down, to breathe. But her body is past pleading. It's soaked in sensation, slack with submission, trembling on the edge of something deeper.

Her mind staggers at the feeling--at the filth of it--but her hips are already moving, already begging.

If Rev wanted her to stop, he would've taken her home. If she wanted to stop, she wouldn't be here. Wouldn't be arching back into every thrust, mouth open for more.

The weight at her hips shifts. She feels him press in, steady and assured. Her breath catches.

This is really happening.

The stretch blooms through her like fire, slow and full and unmistakable. Her mouth opens in a silent cry, fingers fisting in the sheets. The man beneath her groans at the squeeze. The one behind her growls low, satisfied.

And Gabby--Gabby just melts between them.

Her breath catches--a sharp gasp tearing from her throat. Her fingers claw at the sheets, nails digging in as her body adjusts, stretching to take them both. Every ridge, every vein presses into her, each thrust synchronized into a rhythm that scrambles the last threads of thought.

Her body jerks, climax catching her off-guard, quick and uncontrollable, like a nerve misfiring from too much. The Cyborg hums in satisfaction, gripping her hip hard as he buries himself deeper, brutal and deliberate.

" Fuck, already?" he growls, voice thick with filth. "You just came from being split open by two cocks--shaking on mine like a needy little toy. You fucking love this."

He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh--burying himself deeper.

"Still so fucking tight... and yet you took both our cocks so easy. Like this filthy little body was made to be this full."

She doesn't argue. Doesn't think. Another man steps forward, his cock already in hand. He slides it past her lips with practiced ease just as another figure takes her free hand, guiding her fingers around his shaft. The pressure is immediate--her throat stretching again, her hand already moving. Her jaw aches, but her body moves on instinct, welcoming them both.

Her reactions blur--throat tightening, tongue lapping, fingers stroking in time with every groan. The Cyborg doesn't slow down behind her, his grip still iron, his pace deep and relentless. The heat builds in every direction, each of them using her, needing her. Her ass is spread open, exposed to the men around her, The Cyborg shifts angle, hitting something deeper. She gasps. She's stretched beyond what she thought possible. The shift punches another orgasm from her, helpless and breathless, her hips twitching under the onslaught.

"Still coming?" someone laughs. ""You're making a fucking mess, you insatiable slut."

The new guy in her hand finishes with a grunt, warmth spilling over her fingers and chest. She barely notices as another cock presses into her palm--still wet from the last, no one bothering to wipe it clean.

"Shit, how many is that?" she wonders, dazed.

The man beneath her groans, jerking up hard as he finishes deep inside her. She shudders, muscles locking around him, her body tightening from the inside out. For a breath, she thinks it's over.

Then he slips free, leaving her open, aching, dripping. Another man slides into place. Without pause--no hesitation, no words--filling the space like he'd been waiting for her. She barely has time to adjust before another shadow leans in from the front.

She barely has time to register the change when a wet heat paints her cheek. A thick rope across her jaw, her lips like a mark, dripping as she gasps. Someone smears it with their thumb, dragging the mess down to her breast. Another hand slips into her hair, yanking her forward and down onto a new cock, one already leaking and eager.

And still, behind her, the cyborg hasn't relented--fucking her ass with punishing force. Her rim is raw, stretched wide around him, yet he doesn't ease up. The plastic joints of his costume creak with every brutal thrust as he drives deeper than any of the others, cruel and precise. She feels every inch, every unforgiving slam, like it's being carved into her. It's too much--and somehow still not enough.

Her body jolts with each thrust, hips shuddering, breath catching. She can't stop shaking. Her ass is on fire, used, aching--and she's clenching around him anyway. Like her body's learned to crave it. Like it wants to be punished for how far she's fallen.

It's as if the mask gave him permission to use her however he wanted. He doesn't feel her trembles. Doesn't hear her choked whimpers. He doesn't care.

He just keeps going.

She jerks between them, mouth full, cunt stretched, ass claimed. Hands roam her skin like it's theirs, pinching, slapping, steadying. Every gasp earns a cock. Every moan gets muffled. Her thoughts scatter, drowned by the heat, the sting, the stretch, the noise--the overwhelming rhythm of skin on skin, the groans, the grunts, the cries.

They've tasted her now. And they're not going to wait their turn anymore.

The man in her mouth starts to speed up. His grip on her hair tightens, his hips snapping forward. She feels it building--his breathing breaking into short, erratic bursts. He jerks forward again and again, no rhythm now, just need. Her throat is raw, but she swallows him down anyway, tasting the sharp salt of him.

He groans, a low, guttural sound that reverberates in her skull, and then he lets go. Hot and thick, he empties into her throat. She doesn't flinch. She swallows every drop, lips sealed tight, not letting a single ounce escape.

He pulls back--just slightly, gasping for breath--but doesn't leave her mouth. Instead, he tilts her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes as he drags his softening cock slowly between her lips, still claiming space.

"Fuck," he breathes, half-lidded and flushed. "That was..."

The door shuts with a heavy click--final, deliberate.

Heads turn. So does she.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't need to. The doesn't speak. Doesn't need to. The room shifts around him--like prey sensing a predator. He's tall, broad, covered head to toe in dark fur and leather. The Beast.

Her breath catches--shallow, startled--before she even realizes. There's something different about this one. The way he moves. The silence he brings with him.

He takes his time.

Steps closer. Removes his gloves. Shrugs off the heavy cloak. And then--

Her heart stutters. She doesn't know why yet--but her body does.

Her eyes drop.

God.

He's already half-hard, and still growing. Thick. Heavy. Hanging low between his thighs like a promise. Bigger than most. Bigger than any so far.

Finally

She swallows without meaning to.

Whoever he is... he came here for her.

Part of her hopes he's too big. Hopes it hurts.

Because that's what good girls get for being this filthy.

***

The door shuts behind you with a heavy, deliberate click.

Not loud. Not rushed. Just final.

It cuts through the noise like a blade--muting the moans, the slap of skin, the choked gasps--just for a second. Long enough for every head to turn. Long enough for her to turn.

You don't speak.

You don't need to.

The room shifts around you. Recoils, reshapes. They don't know who you are--but they feel it. Something about the way you stand. The silence you carry.

And then you see her.

On her knees. Flushed, ruined, wrecked in the most obscene, beautiful way. Her body jerks forward as someone finishes in her mouth. A tremble runs through her thighs. Another man pulls her by the hips, stuffing himself between her legs like he has a right to be there. The man behind her, The Cyborg, hasn't stopped at all.

She looks up.

Wide. Glazed. Dazed. But her eyes lock on you all the same.

And something inside you snaps.

She gave herself away. Let them use her. Let them see what's yours. And even now--facedown, dripping, full--she has the audacity to look relieved to see you.

It should've been rage. Should've been disgust. You wanted it to be.

But all you can think is how fucking ripe she looks--ruined like that. Not for you. Not yet.

Because she's wrecked.

Eyes glassy. Mouth slack. Cheeks streaked with spit and tears.

She should be ashamed. Should be ruined. But the way she looks at you--needy, like she's bracing for more.

Her body trembling like it's had too much... or wants more.

Someone reaches for her.

You move before you think.

Just a step. Quiet. Deliberate. But it's enough.

The man's hand freezes mid-air. Then drops.

The room shifts again--pulling back. Breathing shallow. No one wants to challenge whatever just stepped in.

No one except him.

The Cyborg doesn't stop. Still buried in her ass, fucking her with sharp, brutal thrusts. One hand fisted in her hair like a leash, the other crushing her hip. He turns to look at you--hips still slamming into her--like he wants to see if you'll actually do something about it. A silent dare.

"This hole's full, freak. Get in line."

Not a warning. A performance. Sharp and Public. Loud enough to make sure everyone hears.

Something inside you tears loose.

You move without thinking. No warning. No words. Just the red haze of mine blinding everything else. Moving like a storm--controlled, unyielding, impossible to ignore. Every man in your path steps aside, not out of fear... but instinct. Like they know better.

You don't give him the dignity of a warning.

You move. Each step precise. Certain. Like the decision was never his to make.

Claim.

The Cyborg stiffens. Still inside her, but faltering. His rhythm stutters. His grip weakens.

You don't stop. Don't slow.

One look--just one--and he sees it. Not rage. Not threat. Just inevitability. It hollows him. He pulls out. Abrupt. Clumsy. Like he knows he doesn't belong there.

He mutters something under his breath. Tries to sound cool. But he's already backing off.

You barely register him. You're already stepping into the space he left behind.

Yours.

The beast should terrify her. But it doesn't. It makes her slick.

Let them clash over her--for the right to use her. To claim her. To breed her.

To fuck her full of cum and pride like she's some prize to be flaunted, owned.

She's a good girl. A perfect slut. And something in her blooms when they treat her like one.

You don't ease in. You can't.

Not after everything. Not after what she let them do. You shove yourself into the mess they left behind, into the ruin of her ass, the only part of her that still feels like it belongs to you. She jerks forward with a choked sound, and you grip her hips harder, dragging her back. Every thrust is a punishment. Every inch you drive into her is a reminder.

She's wrecked. Loose. Gaping from him. Slick with their cum.

Just a used hole--filthy, leaking, open.

But it only makes it easier to take her deeper. Harder.

To fuck her like she's already yours.

Like he was just keeping her warm.

She squeals -- raw and breathless -- but doesn't pull away.

No, she pushes back, greedy for it. Like she knows this is what she deserves. Like she wants to be claimed all over again. And fuck, maybe she does.

You look down. Her back arched, spine glistening with sweat, her body trembling around you. She's still leaking from the others. Still filthy. Still used. But when you're buried in her, none of that matters. She's yours again. Even like this.

Because it doesn't matter who fucked her first.

She's yours now.

And she'll know it by the time you're done.

"Say it," you snarl, voice low against her ear.

"Tell me what they did to you."

She chokes on a moan. Hesitates.

You slam into her again--harder.

"Don't fucking stall. Say it."

Her breath catches. Another thrust breaks it loose.

"They... used me," she whimpers.

You yank her head back by her hair, forcing her to look up, look out. At the others.

No shame. Not anymore. Not after what she let them do.

"Say how."

"They... they fucked me. All of them. At once."

She gasps as your hips slam into hers again, her words breaking apart on a moan.

Still, she pushes through it. Because you haven't told her to stop.

"I had a cock in my mouth. One in my pussy. One in my ass."

She sobs, but it's not shame. Not from fear. From memory. From arousal.

"They stretched me open. Filled every hole. I couldn't breathe without choking on cock."

"Louder."

"I was airtight," she cries. "Split open and stuffed full. I came while they ruined me--while they pumped their cum into every hole. Over and over. I fucking loved it."

The men watching shift again.

You see it. Hunger. Shock. Awe.

You fuck her harder. The slap of skin on skin echoing through the room.

"And what are you now?"

"I'm yours," she gasps. "Your filthy little fucktoy. Your hole to use. Your slut to fill."

She doesn't stop.

Even as the words fall from her mouth, even as her voice shakes, she keeps going--because something in her needs it. Needs to confess. Needs to be seen.

"I begged for it," she gasps. "I didn't want them to stop. I was so full I couldn't think--just moaned and drooled and took it like a fucking whore--"

Her back arches. A strangled moan rips from her throat.

She cums.

Hard. Violent. A full-body quake that leaves her clenching around you, spasming, milking your cock like her body's trying to keep you inside.

It's not quiet.

It's not shy.

She sobs through it--half guilt, half euphoria--legs trembling, body slick and broken beneath you.

You don't slow.

If anything, it only drives you deeper.

"Filthy little slut," you growl, leaning down against her back, your breath hot on her neck. "You came from that?"

She nods, desperate. Humiliated. Glowing in it.

"Then prove it," you snarl. "Prove you're mine. Open your mouth."

Shame thick in the air between you. But she knows what this is. What it means. What you want.

She doesn't move. Not at first. Shame pins her down harder than your grip ever could.

"Open your mouth," you growl. "Be a good little girl, show me who you belong to."

Her fingers curl slowly out of the mattress. Then she moves. Kneels. Opens her mouth.

Eyes flicking up to meet yours, glassy and wet.

When you step forward, she doesn't stop you.

You slam into her mouth--gripping her hair, forcing her down. Her throat tightens around you as she gags, and God, it's filthy. Perfect. That brief resistance only makes her surrender sweeter.

You look down at her, ruined and obedient and desperate for more.

"Look at me," you command. "You're going to take it all. Then I'm going to mark you. Inside. So deep they'll never wash it out."

She moans around you.

When you finally pull her off, she's drooling, breathless, and wrecked.

You toss her back on the bed and bury yourself in her -- this time claiming her properly. Her legs shake. Her cunt clenches around you, wet and welcoming. She babbles nonsense, sweet filth spilling from her lips like she doesn't care who hears--just that you don't stop.

You lean down, grip her throat --

And slam into her one final time. Hot. Deep. Flooding her. Marking her.

Her body shatters. Back arches, legs lock, a strangled moan rips from her throat -- a quake of blinding pleasure tearing through her. She clenches around your cock, milking you with desperate, pulsing grip.

Clenching tighter, like her body's trying to keep you buried inside her forever.

Drenched and trembling, she convulses on your cock -- a final, helpless surrender.

Yours.

You collapse beside her, both of you breathing hard--sweaty, raw, every nerve frayed and overstimulated. Her body is a masterpiece of ruin--slick with sweat, streaked with spit, smeared in seed. She's leaking from all three holes--marked by them, claimed by you. Her thighs are glossy, her belly streaked, her chest and chin splattered, even the curve of her back sticky with dried proof of just how many had been here before you. Mascara runs down her cheeks. Her lips are swollen and red. Her hair's tangled and matted, one ear still catching under the edge of her Catwoman cowl. She looks completely used. Absolutely wrecked.

You watch her twitch beside you, still gasping, her body trembling with aftershocks. She's ruined and dripping, wrecked in all the ways that matter -- yours, entirely.

You rise.

"She's done. For now."

The words leave you quiet and steady, low enough to feel more like a truth than a statement. Final.

She doesn't move when you dress again. Doesn't lift her head. Just lies there, leaking and claimed, a soft, broken sound slipping from her lips as you step away -- the only part of her that follows.

Out in the hallway, the bass returns like a distant heartbeat, dull and constant in your skull. The air is cooler here, clearer, but it does nothing to settle the fever still burning beneath your skin.

You spot Adrian near the bar -- drink in hand, grin wide, cheeks flushed with whatever trouble he's gotten himself into. He lights up when he sees you.

"Man," he says, moving toward you. "That party's insane, right? I lost track of you for a while. Hope you had fun in my getup."

You nod, but don't say anything at first. Just extend your hand.

"Swap," you tell him, your voice quieter than before, but no less firm.

Adrian lifts a brow, still smiling like it's just another joke between friends. "That good, huh?"

You take a breath--deep, steadying. Then let it out slow, the tension slipping with it. A small grin tugs at the corner of your mouth. Quiet. Knowing. A private little truth.

You take the cowl anyway.

Adrian downs the last of his drink, still grinning--loose and lit up, happy in a way that's completely unburdened.

"Think I'm gonna call it soon," he says, stretching with a satisfied sigh. "Unless I run into that Catwoman again. Jesus, man--she was something else."

You nod, again. Slow. Wordless.

He laughs, low and amused. "Still no idea who I was. Think that made it better."

You're not angry.

Not at him.

Not even really at her.

Just... wrecked.

Caught somewhere between empty and aching, hollow and hard. Reeling from how much it turned you on. How much you let it turn you on. Everything you saw. Everything you allowed.

You tug the cowl down over your face, sealing yourself back in.

Then head for the bar. You need something. Anything.

That's when you catch her--just a flicker at the edge of your vision. Slipping between bodies like smoke, effortless. Lust.

She doesn't stop. Doesn't slow. Just glances back with a cheeky smile and a nod that says she knows. Knows what you saw. What you did. What you wanted.

Then she's gone, swallowed by the crowd.

You turn back to your drink. Take a longer pull than you should. It burns, but not enough. The heat doesn't reach the hollow place opening wide inside your chest. Doesn't settle the noise in your head.

You stare into the glass, but all you see is her--Gabby. The way she looked at you. The way she touched you. The way she smiled like she was still riding the high of what you let happen. Did she know?

You don't know what any of it means. What it says about her. What it says about you.

You're not even sure if you're angry. There's too much static in your chest to find a clean emotion. You just feel... off-balance. Like something inside you slipped out of alignment and hasn't quite clicked back.

You could leave. It would be easier.

But you don't.

Instead, you set the empty glass down and turn away from the bar.

Back into the crowd. Past the pulsing lights and sweaty bodies. Every step feels heavier than the last, your legs moving on muscle memory alone.

You find the stairs without really looking. Start climbing before you can second guess it.

One breath at a time. One step, then another.

Because you're not ready to let her go.

Not after that.

But there you are, back in the cowl. Back in the suit.

Back in the hallway that still smells like sweat, smoke, and sin.

And then you see her.

Gabby.

Hair a mess. Makeup ruined. Costume half-fixed like someone tried to pretend nothing happened. --but not enough to hide the truth.

She's talking to someone--

No, not just someone. The Beast. Of course, it's Adrian.

Still grinning. Still glowing from the night he thinks went perfectly.

You freeze.

She doesn't see you yet.

He sure as hell doesn't.

Neither of them know what you know.

She laughs at something he says, soft and unsteady. She reaches up to fix her mask, but it slips. Her fingers are trembling.

And then--God--she touches his arm. Light. Lingering.

Like she's not done with him. Like she's still thinking about the beast.

About what he did. What you did.

Adrian's eyes are on her like he might try again, oblivious to who he's really standing with.

And then--she sees you.

Her breath catches. Eyes wide.

Then softer. Warmer.

Relief floods her face, washing away the nerves, the shakiness, the mask she wore for Adrian.

She smiles.

Like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Like nothing's changed.

There's gratitude in her eyes. Devotion, even.

She thinks you came back for her. Thinks you wanted this. All of this.

Thinks the night meant something more than just masks and impulse and ruin.

She's happy to see you.

And for a moment--God--it almost hurts to look at her.

But still, no matter how many cocks filled her tonight, no matter how far she fell, you were the one who finished it--who marked her, who left something behind that no one else could touch.

She doesn't know it yet. Not really. But she's yours.

She takes a step forward, fingers curling slightly like she wants to reach for you, say something, close the distance--

But she doesn't.

She just stands there, caught in the glow of your suit's shadow, still lit from within by everything you did to her. There's a warmth in her eyes now, a softness that wasn't there before. She looks peaceful. Open.

And then, with a little grin, she tilts toward him--the Beast. "You staying late?" she asks, playful, hopeful. "Or should we head to yours?"

A small laugh slips out. "Unless you're done with me already."

Then, finally, she meets your eyes.

She smiles. Bright. Certain. Like she's proud of herself.

Excited to walk away with someone else.

And all you can do is stand there, watching her offer everything you gave her to another man--soft, eager and, yet, ready for more.

She wasn't broken. She was radiant.

Because she believed this was what you wanted.

Because she thought, somehow, that all of this--every surrender, every stranger--was a gift for you.

And then she turns.

Her hand finds his--Adrian's--and without hesitation, she lets him lead her away.

They walk right past you.

She doesn't hesitate. Her eyes never leave yours--warm and wicked, lips just barely curled. Smirking.

But as she passes, her shoulder brushes yours.

Her hand dips low -- quick, shameless -- brushing the bulge still straining beneath your suit.

A flicker of pressure. A squeeze of knowing.

She leans in, close enough that only you can hear--

"You could've worn any mask tonight. I always know when it's you. You don't just fuck me. You claim me."

"I'm always yours"