Chapter 6: A warm cleanse
Steam billowed, thick and cloying, carrying the cheap citrus scent of Roxy’s body wash. It fogged the cramped bathroom mirror, swallowed the flickering neon tube light outside the window, turning the tiny space into a hazy, humid cave. The shower pounded against the chipped porcelain tub, a relentless roar that drowned out everything else.
Roxy stood under the spray, head tipped back, water sluicing down her face, plastering dark strands to her temples and neck. Her skin was flushed pink, marked faintly here and there by the pressure points of the latex suit she’d finally peeled off. The discarded catsuit lay in a wet, glistening heap on the floor tiles like a discarded second skin, tangled with her discarded boots. She ran her hands over her ribs, down her stomach, washing away the sweat, the sticky residue of Billy’s release, the lingering phantom scent of the beaker’s chemical sweetness. Her movements were efficient, almost brusque.
Billy hesitated at the curtain’s edge, the silk robe a puddle of burgundy on the floor behind him. The steam hit him, warm and thick. He pulled the damp plastic aside. Roxy didn’t turn, just shifted slightly under the pounding water, making space. Her back was to him, muscles moving smoothly under wet skin.
He stepped in. The water was scalding, shocking against his cooler skin. He gasped. Roxy finally turned, water streaming down her face. Her gaze swept over him – pale skin, the faint outline of ribs, the stirring of renewed interest between his legs despite the awkwardness.
"Took you long enough," she said, her voice barely audible over the deluge. She grabbed a ragged sponge from the hanging caddy. "Turn around."
He obeyed, presenting his back. The coarse sponge scraped over his shoulders, down his spine, scrubbing hard. It wasn't sensual; it was utilitarian. Getting clean. Washing off the night, the morning, the filming. The scent of cheap soap overpowered everything else. Her knuckles dug into a knot of tension near his shoulder blade. He hissed.
"Relax," she commanded, her voice flat. "You held enough tension last night to power the damn grid." She worked the sponge lower, over the curve of his ass. Her touch was impersonal, efficient. A task.
He leaned his forehead against the cool tile, breathing in steam and soap. "Did we... did we go too far?" The question was muffled by the water and tile.
Roxy paused. Just for a beat. The sponge resumed its rough journey down his thigh. "Too far for who?" she countered. "The viewers? They paid for far." Her hand slid around his hip, sponge working over his groin, not lingering, just cleaning. Clinical. We’re still standing. Mostly." She nudged him. "Swap."
He turned. Water streamed into his eyes. She was already soaping the sponge again. Her expression was unreadable beneath the slick strands of hair and the downpour. She started on his chest, the rough texture scraping over his nipples, making him jerk. Her eyes flicked down to his renewed erection bobbing near her wrist. A ghost of that predatory smirk touched her lips. "Stimulus-response," she murmured, almost to herself. "Predictable." She ignored it, moving down his stomach.
He stood rigid, letting her wash him. Her closeness, the heat, the water, her impersonal touch – it was its own kind of intensity. Not the raw, chemical-fueled frenzy of before, but something quieter, more unnerving. She was assessing him. Cleaning the tool. Her fingers, slick with soap, brushed the base of his cock as she cleaned his inner thigh. He sucked in a breath.
"Easy, tiger," she said, her voice low and rough under the water's roar. "Shower's for washing. Save the main event for the paying customers." She straightened, meeting his eyes. Hers were dark, unreadable pits in her wet face. "Pass the shampoo."
The water cut off abruptly. The sudden silence was jarring, filled only by the drip-drip-drip from the showerhead and their wet breathing. Roxy pushed past him, grabbing a thin, threadbare towel. She rubbed her hair vigorously, then wrapped the towel around herself, tucking it tight above her breasts. She kicked the sodden pile of latex towards the corner. "Get dressed. I wanna see the numbers."
Drying off in the humid box felt futile. Billy grabbed another towel, the texture rough against his flushed skin. He watched Roxy, already moving with purpose, squeezing water from her dark hair. The persona from the video was gone, shed like the latex. This was the Roxy from the club, from the gritty reality: focused, pragmatic, a little dangerous.
They dressed in silence in the cooler air of the living room, pulling on their street armor – Roxy in impossibly tight, faded black jeans, a threadbare band tee advertising a band that broke up a decade ago, worn sneakers. Billy in yesterday’s rumpled button-down and chinos, smelling faintly of stale lab and sex. The discarded silk robe lay forgotten on the bathroom floor.
Roxy flipped open the laptop on the cluttered coffee table. The screen flared to life, illuminating their faces in the dimly lit room. The neon sign outside pulsed, casting intermittent washes of sickly green and red light across the walls.
The OnlyFans dashboard loaded.
Roxy froze. Her finger hovered over the trackpad. Billy leaned closer, his damp hair dripping onto his collar.
The numbers were… impossible.
Subscribers: 2,847
Total Earnings (USD): $8,921.50
Messages: 1,246 Unread
Notifications: 589 Likes, 312 Comments
"Fuck," Billy breathed, the word escaping like a punch.
"Fuck," Roxy echoed, but her tone was different. Sharp. Hungry. Her eyes scanned the screen, devouring the figures. "Twenty-four hours. Less." She clicked on the earnings breakdown. Top-tier subscriptions dominated. Tips. Pay-per-view unlocks for the "exclusive" video they’d uploaded raw and unedited. "Eight grand," she whispered. "In one fucking day." She looked up at Billy, her eyes reflecting the screen's cold glow. Not triumph, yet. Calculation. "Rent is paid, Billy. With enough left over for…" Her gaze drifted past him, towards the cluttered counter where the empty residue beaker sat. "…better equipment."
Billy felt dizzy. The sheer velocity of it. The video – their frantic, messy, deeply personal explosion – had been packaged, sold, and consumed voraciously. He saw the thumbnail: Roxy’s sweat-slicked face purring into the lens. He saw the view count climbing even as they watched.
"People…" he started, his voice hoarse. "They paid to watch… that?"
Roxy snorted, a harsh, humorless sound. "They paid for me, Billy. For the idea. The suit. The look. The fury." She tapped the screen where a comment was highlighted: ‘Fuck she owns him. I’d pay double to be that chair.’ "They paid for the chemistry." She leaned back on the sagging couch, the flickering neon painting stripes across her face. "Your little science project? It just caught the spark." She grinned then, wide and feral. "Now we fan the fucking flames."
Before Billy could process the terrifying implications of that, Roxy’s phone, discarded on the coffee table, began to vibrate with an incoming call. Not a ringtone, just an angry buzz against the wood. The screen lit up, illuminating the contact name: CHLOE.
Roxy stared at it. Her grin didn't fade, but it tightened at the edges, turning brittle. The neon light pulsed. Green. Red. Green. The phone buzzed again, insistent. A digital fly against the sudden, heavy silence in the room. The numbers on the laptop screen seemed to mock them, glowing brightly against the encroaching shadows and the relentless, rhythmic flicker of the sign outside. The air, thick with the lingering scent of steam and cheap soap, crackled with a new, dangerous tension.
Roxy didn't move to answer it.
The buzzing phone skittered across the coffee table like a live wire. Roxy watched it, her expression unreadable in the neon’s erratic pulse. Chloe. Her friend, the goth burlesque queen, the one who’d shown her the money. The one who’d know exactly how fast word traveled in the darker corners of the internet. The call timed out. Silence rushed back in, thick and charged.
"Chloe," Billy stated, his voice tight. He stared at the laptop screen, its glow painting his face pale. "$8,921.50. In less than a day." The numbers felt unreal, radioactive.
Roxy finally moved, snatching the phone just as it started buzzing again. She swiped answer, holding it to her ear without a word. Her eyes stayed locked on the laptop. "Yeah." Pause. A flicker of something – irritation? Triumph? – crossed her features. "Saw it. Obviously." Another pause, longer. Billy could hear the faint, tinny buzz of Chloe’s excited voice on the other end. "Relax, Chlo. We just woke up. Yeah, after." A ghost of her earlier smirk. "Numbers are… decent." She listened, tapping a fingernail against her jeans. "Uh-huh. Yeah. The formula? Minimal. Mostly just… us." She met Billy’s gaze. "Unhinged? That’s the brand, babe." She ended the call without ceremony, tossing the phone back onto the table. "She’s losing her shit. Says the video’s gone thermonuclear in certain forums. ‘Unhinged chemistry’, she called it."
"Unhinged?" Billy echoed, running a hand through his damp hair. "Is that good?"
Roxy leaned forward, clicking rapidly. "Good? It’s the fucking point." She navigated to the video comments. "Let’s see what the paying customers think." The page loaded, a cascade of notifications. She scrolled, fast. "‘Holy fuck she owns him’... ‘That reverse cowgirl view nearly killed me’... ‘Need more of her in latex ASAP’... ‘Is the cameraman single? Asking for a friend’..." She snorted. "Standard fare." She kept scrolling, past the breathless emojis and demands for ‘MORE’. "Here we go. ‘Lighting was kinda trash but holy hell the content’... ‘Camera work amateur but the raw energy 🔥’... ‘Imagine this with proper gear and costumes’..." She stopped, pointing. "‘Would sell my soul for a Wonder Woman scene with her’." She looked up, her eyes gleaming with that feral light again. "Wonder Woman, huh?"
Billy leaned closer, reading over her shoulder. The sheer volume was overwhelming. Explicit praise, technical critiques, desperate requests. "‘Superman needs to fly into her fortress of pleasure!’" he read aloud, a flush creeping up his neck. "People are… imaginative."
"Imaginative pays the bills," Roxy said flatly. She scrolled further. "See? ‘Better camera angles next time!’... ‘Invest in a ring light!’... ‘Need HD close-ups of that ass!’" She slammed the laptop lid halfway, then opened it again, the screen blazing back. "Okay. We need gear. Now. Before the buzz dies." Her mind raced, planning visible. "A real camera. Not your shaky phone. Something that can handle low light. A ring light, maybe two. A mic." Her gaze swept the cramped, dingy room, seeing potential sets, limitations. "This dump won’t cut it forever, but we can work it for now. Angles. Shadows." She looked at Billy, then down at her own simple t-shirt. "And costumes. Definitely costumes."
Billy stared at her, the reality crashing in. "Costumes? Like… Wonder Woman?" The absurdity warred with the terrifying logic. The video proved it: fantasy sold. Amplified everything.
"Starting there," Roxy confirmed, already typing furiously into a search bar. "Iconic. Recognizable. Plays into the ‘superhero’ thing you mentioned." She didn’t look up. "We need the suit. Good latex, not party city crap. Lasso prop. Tiara." Her fingers flew. "Superman for you. Easy. Cape, chest emblem, the glasses for a ‘Clark Kent’ intro maybe." She was deep in the logistics now, the hunter assessing prey. "We can riff on it. Power dynamics. ‘Saving’ her… or her dominating him. Both sell."
Billy’s mind spun. Wonder Woman. Superman. Standing in Roxy’s chaotic living room, the neon flashing, the scent of the discarded latex suit still faintly chemical in the air from the bathroom. The sheer velocity of it left him breathless. One minute showering off the aftermath, the next planning a superhero porno. "This is insane," he murmured, but a strange thrill pulsed beneath the disbelief. The science of it – the lighting, the angles, the enhancement of the fantasy – sparked something in his analytical brain, even as the content made his cheeks burn.
"Insane pays eight grand in a day," Roxy countered, finally looking up. Her eyes held a terrifying certainty. "We ride the wave, Billy. Or we drown." She pushed the laptop towards him, revealing her shopping cart: a DSLR camera, a professional ring light kit, a shotgun microphone. The total made him blink. "Your cut covers the tech. Mine covers the costumes. We film tomorrow night." She stood, stretching, the band tee riding up. "First, lunch. I’m starving. And we need to pick up that latex cleaner for the catsuit. It’s an investment." She grabbed her keys from the counter, next to the empty residue beaker. "Coming?"
Billy looked from the glowing laptop screen – the promise of thousands more, the demands for Wonder Woman – to Roxy, already heading for the door in her worn sneakers, ready to buy supplies for their next performance. The mundane collided violently with the surreal. The camera bag, pristine in its product image, seemed to pulse with potential energy. He stood, the decision already made in the frantic scroll of comments, the neon’s relentless flicker, the echo of Chloe’s buzzing phone. The red recording light waited. He followed her out.
The door to “Plastique Fantastique” hissed shut behind them, sealing them in air thick with the smell of rubber polish and industrial cleaner. Roxy marched past displays of harnesses and hoods, her sneakers squeaking on the polished concrete floor, heading straight for the back corner marked ‘Roles & Fantasies’. Billy trailed, overwhelmed by the sheer muchness – walls lined with vinyl and spandex in lurid colours, mannequins frozen in provocative poses. The faint chemical scent triggered a visceral memory: the sweet residue, Roxy’s sweat-slicked skin under the kitchen lights, the frantic energy of the camera blinking red.
"Focus, Einstein," Roxy called over her shoulder, stopping before a rack labelled 'ICONS'. "We're on a mission." Her fingers danced over the hangers – Batman, Catwoman, a disturbingly accurate Spider-Man. Then she stopped. "Bingo."
She pulled out the Wonder Woman costume. It wasn't cheap Halloween fare. This was heavy-duty, high-shine latex, the royal blue and crimson blood-red, the gold eagle emblem sculpted onto the breastplate. The material caught the overhead fluorescents, throwing back sharp highlights. "Feel that," she commanded, shoving a sleeve at Billy. It was cool, thick, unyielding. Substantial. "This is the real deal. Needs proper lube to get into, but damn..." She held it against herself, turning slightly to catch her reflection in a nearby chrome pillar. The curves the suit promised were formidable. "Okay.Your turn. Find the Boy Scout."
Billy rummaged, feeling awkward, finally pulling out the Superman suit. Vibrant blue, bold red briefs over the leggings, the iconic 'S' shield prominent on the chest. The bright yellow belt buckle felt surprisingly solid. It felt ridiculous, yet strangely potent. He glanced at Roxy, already examining the matching gold tiara and lasso prop. "This feels... surreal," he muttered, holding the suit up. The material felt heavier than he expected.
"Surreal pays the rent," Roxy stated, grabbing a bottle of premium latex shiner and a set of applicator pads. "Eight grand surreal, remember? Now move. We've got lights to set up." She headed for the counter, the Wonder Woman suit draped over her arm like a trophy hide. Billy followed, the Superman suit folded awkwardly in his arms, the scent of new rubber clinging to his clothes. The clerk, a bored-looking person with green hair and multiple piercings, rang them up without comment.
Back in Roxy’s apartment, the mundane chaos underwent a transformation. The new ring lights hummed softly, casting harsh, bright circles onto a cleared space near the futon. The DSLR camera sat mounted on a tripod, its lens a dark, unblinking eye pointed at the designated stage. The professional shotgun mic hovered above it like a sleek black insect. The scent of the cheap citrus body wash was now overlaid with the sharper tang of the new latex cleaner Roxy was vigorously applying to the Wonder Woman suit spread out on the kitchen counter.
"Okay, farm boy," Roxy said, tossing Billy a bottle of talcum powder. "Dust up. Everywhere. Especially... you know." She gestured vaguely at his groin area. "This shit doesn't forgive dry skin." She turned her back, already peeling off her band tee. "And lose the glasses for the intro. Big reveal moment."
Billy fumbled with the powder, the fine white cloud making him cough. He glanced at the camera, its presence suddenly massive and intimidating compared to his phone. He stripped down, the cool air raising goosebumps before he dusted himself liberally. The Superman suit felt alien against his skin – cool, slick, clinging with a pressure that was both restrictive and weirdly empowering. He struggled with the back zip, muscles straining. The blue material pulled taut across his shoulders and chest, the red briefs feeling absurdly brief. He flexed an arm. The material gleamed under the room’s normal light.
"Need a hand, hero?" Roxy’s voice was different. Lower. Smoother. He turned.
She stood framed in the doorway between kitchen and living room, transformed. The latex hugged every formidable curve, the high gloss making her look sculpted from liquid metal. The gold accents – belt, tiara, wrist cuffs – caught the light and blazed. She held the lasso loosely in one hand, the other resting on her hip. Power radiated off her. It wasn't just the costume; it was the set of her jaw, the cool assessment in her eyes. She looked like a goddess contemplating a mortal. Billy’s breath hitched. The suit suddenly felt tighter.
"Wow," he breathed, momentarily forgetting the camera, the absurdity, everything except the sheer visual impact. "Roxy... you look..."
"Like an Amazon who could snap you in half?" she finished, a slow, predatory smile spreading. She stepped closer, the latex whispering with each movement. Her gaze swept over him, lingering pointedly on the front of the red briefs, which were already struggling to contain the effect she was having. "Hmm. Looks like the suit fits, Kent." She tapped the 'S' emblem with a glossy red fingernail. "Now, about those glasses."
She reached up. Billy instinctively flinched back. "Whoa, easy Diana."
Roxy paused, tilting her head. "Diana? Oh, we're in it." Her smile deepened. Perfect. She moved again, faster this time, plucking the thick-rimmed glasses Billy used for reading schematics from his face. She held them up, examining them with theatrical disdain. "Clark Kent," she purred, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur aimed towards the camera lens. "Mild-mannered reporter." She crumpled the glasses in her fist with surprising strength – a cheap prop pair they'd grabbed at a convenience store. "Or," she stepped impossibly close, her body heat radiating through the latex, her scent – clean skin and polish – filling Billy’s senses. She pressed the flattened glasses against his chest, right over the emblem. "Kal-El. Last Son of Krypton." Her free hand slid down, fingers tracing the bulge straining against the bright red latex. "Hiding in plain sight, Superman?" Her touch was electric, even through the thick material. Billy swallowed hard, his pulse pounding in his ears. The camera was forgotten. Only Roxy, the demanding pressure of her hand, the intensity in her eyes, existed. "Found your weakness," she whispered, her lips brushing his earlobe. "And it isn't kryptonite."
She pushed him back. Not hard, but with absolute authority. He stumbled, landing on the edge of the futon. The camera captured it all: the controlled push, his surprised stumble, the way the lights blazed off her latex-clad form as she loomed over him. She planted a gleaming red boot on the cushion beside his hip, leaning forward. The eagle emblem strained magnificently.
"Know what I want, Superman?" Her voice was pure honeyed command. "I want leverage. I want the Man of Steel... at my command." She uncoiled the golden lasso slowly, deliberately. "I want to see if you fly... or fall." Her gaze locked onto his. "For me."
Billy stared up, trapped between the futon and her commanding presence. The suit felt alive against his skin, the ring lights hot on his face. This wasn't just acting; it was a current surging between them, amplified by the costumes, the lights, the memory of thousands watching. He saw the challenge in her eyes, the promise. The camera’s quiet hum was the only sound.
He reached up, slowly, his hand trembling slightly. Not to push her away. His fingers touched the high-gloss curve of her latex-covered thigh, just above the boot. The material was cool, impossibly smooth. He traced a line upwards, towards the red briefs barely covering her hip.
"Flying," he managed, his voice rough but clear, "sounds complicated." His other hand rose, mirroring the first, sliding up her other thigh. He met her gaze, the nervous energy transmuting into something hotter, more focused. "How about... landing?" He pulled. Gently, but firmly. Bringing her down towards him, his eyes never leaving hers. The lasso slipped from her hand, coiling silently onto the futon. The camera captured the slow, deliberate descent, the play of light on their bodies, the expanding bulge in the red briefs pressing against the high-gloss curve of her hip as Roxy lowered herself, her Amazonian expression flickering with surprise and then molten heat. Her lips parted, a breath escaping, just as the lens focused tight on the point where his urgency met her dominion. She straddled him, the latex of her suit meeting the latex of his, a high-shine collision. Her hands gripped his shoulders, her eyes blazing down at him.
"Show me," she breathed, the command cracking slightly. "Show me what falls." Her hips rolled, a slow, grinding pressure against him, the sound of latex on latex a soft, obscene whisper picked up by the sensitive microphone. The ring lights reflected in her wide, dark pupils. Billy’s hands slid up her gleaming back, finding the clasp of her tiara. He pulled it free, letting it clatter unnoticed to the floor. His fingers tangled in her dark hair, pulling her mouth down to his with a groan that vibrated through the mic. The kiss was fierce, hungry, a claiming. The camera held steady, capturing the glistening lock of their lips, the flex of Roxy's back muscles, the desperate arch of Billy's body beneath her. She broke the kiss, gasping, throwing her head back, a silent cry forming on her lips as his hands moved lower, gripping her hips, guiding her rhythm. Her control fractured. Surprise vanished, replaced by raw, driving need. She moved against him harder, faster, the futon frame protesting, her earlier leverage dissolving into shared urgency. The camera saw it: the shift in power, the moment the Amazonian warrior became a woman hurtling towards a precipice. Her breath came in sharp gasps, punctuating the slick, rhythmic sound filling the small room. She clutched at his shoulders, her perfect posture collapsing, her head dropping, forehead pressed against his chest as sensation overwhelmed strategy. A low, guttural moan escaped her, building, louder, shaking her frame. She tightened around him, crying out, a sound that started as a gasp and ripped into a raw, shuddering scream as her body arched violently back. Light caught the sheen of sweat forming along her spine, the taut lines of her neck, the pure, unadulterated ecstasy contorting her face as the orgasm tore through her. The camera didn't flinch. It held her in that moment of shattering release, the powerful Wonder Woman brought utterly, completely undone. Her body trembled, held up only by Billy's hands on her hips, her scream dissolving into ragged, gasping breaths that fogged the chrome eagle emblem on his chest. Her eyes, when they finally fluttered open, meeting the lens briefly, were dazed, unfocused, reflecting the ring lights like shattered glass. Her fingers dug into his biceps, grounding herself. A single drop of sweat traced a path from her temple down her gleaming cheek, catching the light like a diamond as she panted, "Again." Her voice was a wrecked whisper, raw and demanding, aimed at the man beneath her, the camera, the world. "Do it... again."