Chapter 2: The Cat's Whiskers
The back door groaned on its hinges as Greg slipped inside, the leather of his harness creaking softly. The shift from the crisp, rational night to the basement’s liquid chaos was absolute. The strobe lights hacked the room into a series of frantic, disconnected images: a laughing mouth, a flung cup, a spinning sequin. The bass wasn’t just sound; it was pressure, a fist around his ribs that squeezed and released in time with his heartbeat. The molly’s warmth had fully ignited, translating the noise into a colorful static fizz along his skin.
He moved through the crowd, the clawed hands held awkwardly before him. People parted, their eyes glazing over his altered silhouette with momentary interest before being pulled back into their own orbits. He spotted a girl in a sailor dress, her hat tilted precariously. He leaned in, his voice a shout that was barely a whisper against the music. “Hey! Have you seen Katy? The stewardess?”
The sailor girl blinked, her pupils wide. She grinned, pointing a finger vaguely toward the ceiling. “Something got spilled! Jungle juice tsunami all down her front! She went up to change!”
Before he could thank her, she was swallowed by the surge of bodies.
The information floated in Greg’s mind, unimportant. Katy was changing. That was fine. Everything was fine. The rhythm found its way into his muscles, a convulsive, joyful twitch in his shoulders. He let the crowd absorb him, closing his eyes, becoming just another moving part in the hot, breathing machine of the party.
Time became elastic, measured only in drops of sweat tracing paths down his spine and the endless, cycling beat. He raised his claws, grazing the pulsing air, a conductor of nothing.
Then, a new pressure.
It started as a brush against his back, a syncopated rhythm that matched, then deliberately countered his own. He turned.
A cat. Sleek, black, and sinuous. A skintight bodysuit that shimmered under the epileptic lights, complete with a tail that swished lazily. The mask was full-face, sleek plastic with pointed ears and painted-on whiskers, obscuring everything but the pale glow of eyes and a slash of red lips.
She moved without hesitation, pressing her body against the length of his, her hips finding the groove of his own. Her movements were liquid, articulate, a language his body understood instantly. The harness and claws, which had felt monstrous moments before, now felt like ceremonial armor. She ran her gloved hands over the leather straps on his chest, her touch proprietary, curious.
He felt himself stir, a thick, insistent pressure growing against the zipper of his jeans. She whispered something, her lips brushing the edge of his mask, but the words were lost in the bass. It didn’t matter. Her body was speaking a clearer language. She rocked back into him, the soft curve of her ass grinding against his erection with a deliberate, practiced rhythm that made his breath catch.
“What are you supposed to be?” she yelled over the music, turning her head just enough for him to hear the teasing lilt in her voice. Her gloved hand slid down from his chest, over the flat of his stomach.
“Wolverine” he grunted, the word rough and unfamiliar in his own throat. It was all he could manage.
She laughed, a low, vibrating sound he felt more than heard. “Show me what you've got Mr. X Man.”
Then she turned completely, facing him, her body still fused to his by the pulse of the crowd. One black-gloved hand pressed flat against his chest, pushing him back a half-step into a slightly darker pocket near the wall. The other hand dropped, palming him through his jeans with a confident, assessing pressure. He groaned, his head falling back against the cool plaster. The sensations were laser-focused, brilliant, the cheap leather of her glove and the rough denim and the hard throb underneath creating a feedback loop of pure need.
She lifted her mask just enough to expose her mouth, a slash of red in the shadows, and pulled his own mask down slightly. Then her lips were on his, tasting of cherry gloss and metallic sweat. It was hungry and deep, all tongue and heat. Her hand worked him, stroking firmly through the fabric, the friction maddening and perfect. The ecstasy amplified every point of contact—the scrape of her teeth on his lip, the smell of her hair (strawberries and smoke), the rhythmic clench of her thighs.
Everything narrowed to her hand, her mouth, the dizzying swell of pleasure building in his gut. The world beyond their two masked bodies—the music, the laughter, the spill of forgotten punch on the floor—faded into a dull, unimportant roar. He was just sensation now, a vessel being filled to the brim with her.
He was just sensation now, a vessel being filled to the brim with her. The kiss broke, leaving his lips buzzing and wet. She pulled his mask back into place with a sharp, possessive tug.
“Dance with me,” she murmured, her voice a rough scrape against his ear. It wasn’t a question.
Her body slid against his once more, turning so her back was to his chest. She reached behind, grabbing his clawed hands and pulling them around her waist, locking them over the taut material of her suit. The music, a relentless, throbbing electronic snarl, commanded obedience. She began to move, a slow, deep roll of her hips that was less dance and more declaration.
She ground against him, the full, soft curve of her ass pressing into his hardened cock with a rhythm that was deliberate and slow. Each backward push was a concentrated claim, a punctuation to the bass drop. He could feel every inch of her through the layers of leather and spandex and denim, a maddening, perfect friction.
“Fuck,” he breathed into the synthetic fur of her cat ear.
She answered by arching her spine, pressing the back of her head against his shoulder, exposing the smooth line of her throat. One of her gloved hands came up behind her, fingers tangling in his short hair. The other stayed down, guiding his claw over the plane of her stomach, lower, until the rigid plastic rested against the warm junction of her thighs. She pressed his hand there, holding it, moving herself against it.
The world dissolved into a series of sensory snapshots. The strobing light bleaching her black suit white for milliseconds at a time. The salt-tang of sweat at her hairline. The low, approving murmur she made that vibrated through his own chest. His breath came in short, sharp gasps that matched the tempo of her movements.
“This suit is… impossible,” he managed to say, the words clumsy, his brain lagging behind the insistent signal from his body.
She laughed, a puff of warm air against his neck. “Zipper’s in the back. But not here.” She glanced over her shoulder, her masked profile eerie and beautiful. The painted cat eyes seemed to see right through him. “Too many people.”
She suddenly spun, facing him again. Her hands were on his harness, pulling. “Come on.”
She weaved through the crush, leading him by the leather straps like she was leading a beast on a leash. They stumbled past the DJ booth, up a narrow set of stairs littered with discarded solo cups. The music faded into a dull throb upstairs, replaced by the hum of a fridge and the low murmur of a couple arguing in a nearby bathroom.