"…y-you're really deep inside of me…" The words came out weak, barely a whisper, her voice cracking as she felt him bottom out inside her, the fullness pressing against some place she hadn't known existed. Her thighs trembled, the leather of the catsuit slick against his jeans, her hips slowing as the sensation overwhelmed her—the heat of him, the stretch, the way he pulsed against her inner walls. Duane's breath hitched, his grip on her hips tightening, and she felt the first hot surge of his release, a rush of warmth flooding her deeper than anything she had ever known. One rope, then another, his hips bucking upward as he groaned against her shoulder, his voice low and raw, and she clung to him, her nails dimpling the leather at his back, her eyes screwed shut as her own body clenched around him, answering his climax with a weak, reflexive spasm that she hadn't invited and couldn't control.

The room went quiet except for the rasp of their breathing and the distant hum of the city below. Duane's forehead pressed against her collarbone, his body softening inside her, and she felt the stickiness of his cum seeping around the seal of their bodies, a warm trickle sliding down her inner thigh. The cape had fallen off her boot entirely, pooling on the floor beside the chair, and the mask sat crooked on her brow, the elastic digging into her scalp. She didn't move. She couldn't. Her arms ached, her legs were numb, and the air in the apartment felt thick and strange, like breathing underwater.

His hand came up slowly, his palm settling between her shoulder blades, and he traced a line up her spine to the nape of her neck, his fingers catching on the edge of the domino mask. He didn't push it off. He just left his hand there, a warm weight against her skin, and she felt his lips brush her shoulder—soft, almost apologetic. "That was…" He didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need him to. She felt it in the way his chest rose and fell against hers, in the way his thumb traced a slow circle on her bare shoulder where the catsuit's cutout began.

She shifted her weight, and with a soft, wet sound, she slid off his lap. The air hit the slickness between her thighs immediately, his warmth cooling to a distinct, damp chill against the black leather catsuit. She didn't look at him as she drew the small black metal tab of the zipper up from her womanhood to her throat, the rasp of the teeth loud in the quiet room. "May I have my mask back? Please?"

Duane tucked himself back into his pants, the lower rasp of his own zipper a blunt counterpoint. "I'll give it to you right after I receive the first payment." He said it like he was quoting a policy, a foregone conclusion. His hand found her waist and pulled her close despite the leather between them, and his lips found the junction of her neck and shoulder. She felt the involuntary flutter in her throat, the soft honey of a moan she couldn't quite suppress. "P-Please…" she heard herself beg, the word pathetic against his skin.

He pulled back just enough to look at her. "You have one hell of a body." Then quieter, the words a confession and a claim: "I want you to myself." The admission hung between them, a new wire she hadn't expected to walk. She looked down at her boots, at the ridiculous cape pooled at her heels. Shame coiled in her gut, hot and thick. "I belong to someone else." The words tasted like ash on her tongue.

"Like, who?" He sounded curious, not angry.

"Gregory Milton." The name came out quiet, a brand spoken aloud. She braced for a reaction—jealousy, maybe disgust. Instead, he just sounded bemused. "The building manager?" She nodded, still unable to meet his eyes. He let out a low chuckle, a sound that scraped against the last shred of her dignity. "Well, I don't mind sharing."

Stiletto wobbled on the thin stiletto heels, her thighs still sticky with the evidence of what she'd just done, and crossed to where her phone lay face-down on the glass coffee table. The transfer took three taps—one thousand dollars from her savings account, the confirmation email landing in Duane's inbox before she'd even set the phone down. He watched from the door, his hand resting on the frame, and when she turned to face him, he was already smiling. "Good girl. Now, I want you to come over to my place tonight. Keep the outfit on." He said it like it was obvious, like she had no say in the matter. She nodded, her throat tight, and he pulled the door open, stepped into the hallway, and let it swing shut behind him with a soft click that echoed through the empty apartment.

She stood there for a long moment, the catsuit clinging to her damp skin, the cape pooling at her heels like a reprimand. Then her phone buzzed against the glass. A notification. Then another. She picked it up, and the world went cold. Screenshots—grainy, well-lit, unmistakable—filled her screen. Her, on Duane's lap. The mask crooked. The catsuit unzipped. His hands on her hips. Her mouth open in a moan she didn't remember making. The anonymous hacker had sent them without a caption, without context, as if the images were their own indictment. Her fingers trembled as she swiped to the next message.

"I'm touching myself." The words appeared in a bubble below the screenshots, the hacker's text a cold, clinical confession. Another bubble: "that was so hot." She felt the blood drain from her face, the disgust curling in her stomach like something alive. She typed back with shaking thumbs, her voice leaking through the keyboard: "What should I do?" She stared at the message, already hating herself for asking. For needing him to tell her what to do. For being exactly the brainless superheroine the world had gotten.

A new message appeared, the cursor blinking: "Tell me the truth, did you like the way his dick felt inside of you?" She bit her lip, the memory of Duane's fullness, the stretch she hadn't invited but couldn't deny, flooding back in a hot wave. Her thumbs hovered. Then, foolishly, honestly, she typed: "It felt good." The reply came instantly, a knife wrapped in velvet: "Good. Then ask him again if he'd like to have sex again. And I'll book back to back appointments for you with the other men who want to fuck you too."

She stared at the words until they blurred, the phone warm in her palm, the silence of her condo pressing in from all sides. She wanted to say no. She wanted to throw the phone across the room and tear off the catsuit and crawl into a shower that would never wash the shame off. But her throat was closed, her tongue a dead weight, and the only sound was the distant hum of the city below, indifferent to the idiot superheroine who couldn't speak when it mattered.

Her thumb slipped off the screen. She set the phone face-down on the glass, the hacker's words still burning behind her eyelids. Her fingers found the edge of the blonde wig first—the lace tugged at her hairline, and she pulled it off in one smooth motion, letting it fall to the floor beside the gun she'd never drawn. The domino mask came next, the elastic band snapping against her temple as she peeled it away. Without them, her face felt naked, raw, the rope burn on her throat a livid collar she couldn't hide.

She teetered to the bathroom on the thin stiletto heels, her thighs still tacky with cooling slickness, and braced herself against the sink. The mirror showed a stranger: mascara smudged, lips swollen, green eyes hollow and too bright. She twisted the faucet and splashed cold water on her face, then reached for the foundation compact on the counter, a habit older than the catsuit—patch the cracks the world could see. Her hand shook as she dabbed concealer over the bruise on her collarbone.

Lexi didn't know what she was doing. She hadn't known since the first package arrived. But the apartment felt smaller by the second, the silence pressing in like walls, and the hacker's demand still pulsed in her pocket. Against every thread of sense still knotted in her chest, grabbing her keys and cellphone.

The click of her tall thin heels echoed sharp and lonely against the tile floor of Duane's unit as she crossed the threshold, the door swinging inward at her touch. The apartment smelled of stale cigarette smoke and fast-food grease, a scent that clung to the walls and furniture like a confession. Her long black cape slithered behind her, the hem whispering against the linoleum, as she followed the sound of a television murmuring from the master bedroom. She found him sitting on the edge of an unmade bed, naked from the waist down, his legs spread wide, and in one hand he held her strapless domino mask.

"Looking for this?" He grinned, his voice lazy and sure, as if he'd been expecting her all along. She took a step forward, her hand reaching for the mask, but he pulled it back, tucking it behind him on the mattress. "Not so quick, slut." The word landed like a slap, and she felt her cheeks flush, her throat tightening around the words she needed to say. "P-Please, you said you'd give it back if we had sex," she whined, hating the sound of her own voice, the desperation leaking through every syllable.

He let out a low, appreciative laugh, his eyes dragging over her costumed body—the tight black catsuit, the cape pooling at her heels. "Wow," he drawled, shaking his head slowly, "you're a pretty little thing. But really not too smart." He stood, and she watched as his hands moved to his waistband, pushing his underwear down his thighs. His penis hung in front of her, half-erect, the sight of it making her stomach clench with a familiar, sick dread.

She shuddered, her gaze dropping to the floor, her arms wrapping around herself as if she could shrink away from what was happening. "…I..I did what you wanted," she whimpered, the words barely audible, a thread of protest she knew wouldn't hold.

Duane didn't answer her whimper with words. He just reached down and wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking slowly, deliberately, the sound of skin on skin filling the silence between them. Her eyes stayed fixed on the floor, on the scuffed linoleum, on the edge of her cape pooled in a shadow. "I want to have sex again," he said, his voice flat, a statement of fact rather than a request. She swallowed, the rope burn on her throat pulling tight. "Promise me you'll wear a condom next time." The words came out dry, cracked, a thread of a demand she had no right to make. He let out a low chuckle. "You have my word." She didn't look up to see if he was smiling. She already knew.

He crossed to the wall switch, and the room plunged into darkness. The only light was the faint orange bleed from the streetlamp through the blinds, painting stripes across the twisted sheets. She heard him move, the creak of the bed frame as he sat down. "Here's your mask." Her strapless domino mask landed on the mattress beside her hand, the familiar weight of it a shock against her fingertips. She picked it up, the material cool and inert. In the dim light, she glared at him—a flicker of something hot and wordless—before pressing it to her face. The change was instant, seamless: the platinum hair, the ocean-blue eyes, the subtle shift in her bone structure that made her someone else. Her enhanced healing factor knitted the last of the rawness in her throat, a faint tingle receding into stillness.

"Get on your hands and knees." The command came from the dark beside the bed. She turned her back to him, the cape rustling against her boots as she crawled onto the mattress, the springs groaning under her weight. Her fingers found the zipper tab at her nape and drew it down, the leather parting along her spine, the cool air hitting the sweat-damp skin of her back. She shrugged the catsuit down to her waist, the fabric bunching around her hips, her small breasts hanging loose and bare in the dim light. She didn't turn to look at him. She just waited, her palms flat on the sheets, her head bowed.

His hands found her hips, his grip impersonal and firm, and he pushed inside her in a single, dry thrust. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, her eyes squeezing shut against the sting of it, the sudden fullness. He bottomed out with a grunt, his thighs slapping against the backs of her thighs, and then he began to move—short, shallow pumps that rocked her forward onto her palms. She stared at the pillowcase, at the faint stain on the fabric, and let her mind go blank, let her body become a vessel for his rhythm.

His pace quickened, his breathing turning ragged against her shoulder blade. She kept her eyes open, fixed on a crack in the drywall above the baseboard, her mind a white static. The mask felt cool against her skin, a second face that held none of the shame. Duane's hand slid up her spine, fisting in the blonde wig, and he yanked her head back, forcing her spine into an arch. "You like being a slutty superheroine?" he hissed, his voice low and cruel against her ear. She didn't answer.

Her silence hung between them like a wall. Duane's grip tightened in her wig, and he pulled her head back further, the tendons in her neck straining. "I asked you a question." His thrusts slowed to deliberate, punishing depth, each one pushing the air from her lungs in a sharp gasp. She felt the crack in the drywall blur, her focus unraveling with every inch of him. "Do you like being a slutty superheroine?" Her lips parted. The word came out before she could stop it, muffled against the sheets: "Y-Yes." It was barely a whisper, but he heard it. His hips slammed forward, and she bit down on a moan, her fingers curling into the mattress.

"Louder." He pulled out almost entirely, then drove back in, the sudden emptiness followed by a fullness that made her see stars. "I said, louder." Her body answered before her voice did — her spine softening, her shoulders dropping, her forehead pressing into the pillow as she surrendered the last rigid inch of resistance. "Yes," she breathed, the word wet and broken. "I like it." The admission cracked something open in her chest, a door she hadn't known was locked, and the shame that flooded through was hot and electric and strangely freeing. He drove into her again, and this time the moan escaped her throat raw and unguarded, her hips rocking back to meet him.

His rhythm turned relentless, a piston of flesh and intent that left no room for thought. She stopped counting the thrusts. She stopped watching the crack in the wall. Her eyes slid closed, then rolled back, the ocean-blue irises disappearing behind her lids as her mouth fell open in a long, shuddering moan that filled the room. The sound surprised her — deep, animal, nothing like the small gasps she'd let herself make before. It excited him; she felt it in the way his hands gripped her hips harder, in the guttural groan that vibrated against her spine. "That's it," he hissed, his voice tight with effort. "Let me hear you."

She did. The moans came in waves now, each one louder than the last, her throat raw with the sound of her own surrender. Her legs began to tremble, the muscles in her thighs quaking as the pressure built somewhere deep and foreign, a coil she hadn't known she possessed. She pressed her face into the pillow, her teeth catching the fabric, but the sounds still escaped — high, helpless, broken on every exhale. He reached beneath her, his palm flat against her belly, and pulled her back onto him harder, faster, the angle shifting until she felt him against that same hidden place from before, and her cry turned into something almost pleading.

A hot tension began to gather at the base of her spine, spreading through her pelvis in slow, deepening waves. She didn't want it. She couldn't stop it. Her body clenched around him in a long, involuntary spasm, her inner walls milking his length as a broken cry tore from her throat — raw, surprised, ashamed. He let out a shuddering curse, his hips stuttering against hers, and she felt him pulse inside her, a second hot rush flooding deeper than the first, spilling past the seal of their bodies and trickling down her thigh. She collapsed onto her forearms, her forehead pressed to the damp pillowcase, her breath coming in ragged sobs she couldn't quite hide. The room was quiet except for their breathing, and the distant hum of the city below, and the slow sticky evidence.

The warmth of his body receded like a tide, leaving her alone on the damp sheets, and she felt the weight of her own limbs pressing her deeper into the mattress. Her eyelids fluttered, the orange streetlight through the blinds fracturing into bands of gold and shadow that swam across her vision. She tried to push herself up, to find the edge of the bed, to reclaim some scrap of dignity before the darkness took her, but her arms buckled beneath her and she slumped sideways, her cheek pressing into the pillowcase where the scent of him and her and the sickly-sweet tang of sweat had already soaked the fabric. The last thing she registered was the creak of the bed frame as Duane shifted his weight, and then the world went soft at the edges, the hum of the city fading to a distant drone, and she was gone.

Duane watched her breathing slow, her body going slack against the twisted sheets. He reached for his phone on the nightstand, the screen lighting up his face in a pale glow, and thumbed the camera open. The first shot was clinical—her sprawled on her stomach, the catsuit bunched around her waist, the blonde wig tangled across her face. He shifted his angle, crouching beside the bed to capture the curve of her spine, the way the leather strained across her hips. He pulled the cape free from beneath her leg, letting it pool on the floor, and tugged the catsuit down past her thighs until it gathered at the tops of her boots, exposing the pale skin of her hips and the dark thatch of hair between her legs. The shutter clicked twice.

He worked quickly, methodically, as if he had done this a hundred times before. He rolled her onto her back, her arms flopping uselessly at her sides, and unfastened the domino mask, peeling it from her face and setting it aside. Her features shifted back to Lexi's—the wide green eyes closed, the full lips parted, the faint bruise on her collarbone visible in the dim light. He stripped the catsuit down her legs, tugging it over her heels, leaving her utterly naked except for the domino mask on the pillow and the thigh-high boots still around her calves. He paused at that, then unzipping and pulling off the boots off one at a time, letting them thud to the floor. The shutter clicked again, capturing her bare from head to toe, a doll discarded on a stranger's bed.

He stood over her for a long moment, the phone angled down, and took one final shot—her face in profile, the rope burn on her throat a livid collar, her small breasts pooled soft against her ribcage, her legs loosely apart. He scrolled through the gallery, the images flickering across the screen in a silent inventory, and then he set the phone face-down on the nightstand and reached for the sheet. He pulled it up over her body, tucking the edge beneath her chin, and the fabric settled against her skin like a shroud. The gesture was almost tender, as if he were putting a child to bed, and he paused with his hand hovering above her shoulder before turning off the light.

He stripped down to his briefs and slid into bed beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight, and she rolled toward him in her sleep, her forehead coming to rest against his chest. Her breathing was slow and even, her lips slightly parted, and he felt the rise and fall of her ribcage against his arm. He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, at the crack in the drywall she had counted while he took her, and then his arm curled around her, his palm settling on the small of her bare back. The city hummed below them, indifferent and eternal, as the middle-aged McDonald's store manager held the unconscious superheroine through the long, quiet hours of the night.