Chapter 3: The Masked Encounter
The hallway was a tight, dark throat lined with closed doors. She didn’t hesitate, wrenching open the third one on the left and pulling him inside. The door clicked shut, a soft, final sound, and the deadbolt slid home with a heavy thunk.
The roar of the party became a distant ocean. Here, the air was still and warm, thick with the smell of dust and damp carpet. A lava lamp on a scarred dorm desk burbled, casting globules of undulating orange light that slid over peeling wallpaper and a narrow, unmade bed.
Greg’s blood was a percussion instrument in his ears. He reached for her, but she evaded his claws, stepping back until her calves hit the edge of the mattress. She watched him, her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the slick black material.
“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice ragged.
“No names,” she said, her tone shifting into something lower, a deliberate performance. She put a gloved finger to the lips of her mask. “I’m just Catwoman tonight. And you… you’re just the animal I found.” The playful lilt was still there, but undercut now by a sharp, hungry edge.
He took a step forward. “Okay. Just Catwoman.”
“Good.” In one fluid motion, she pushed him. He stumbled back, his legs buckling as he hit the bed, sinking into a soft, ancient mattress. She was on him instantly, a sleek weight straddling his hips, her knees pinning his thighs. Through the haze of the drug and the pounding want, he was acutely aware of her strength, the control in her movements.
She ground herself down against the hardened length of him, a slow, circular torment through the layers of spandex and denim. A choked sound escaped his throat. The plastic claws of his gloves scraped uselessly at the bedspread.
“These are ridiculous,” she breathed, grabbing one of his wrists. She fumbled with the strap, her own gloves making her clumsy. After a moment of fiddling, she tore the clawed glove off and tossed it aside. Then the other. Her black-gloved hands met his bare skin, her fingers lacing with his, pressing them back into the mattress above his head. The intimacy of it, skin on skin even through the barrier of her glove, was electrifying.
She held him there, staring down through the mask. Then she released his hands and slid down his body, her movement a slow, deliberate descent. Her hands went to his belt buckle and undid the clasp.
Cool air hit his skin, followed by the heat of her mouth.
He gasped, back arching off the bed. His hands flew to her head, his fingers sinking into the synthetic fur of the cat-eared hood. She didn’t start slow. She took him deep, her tongue working a wicked, knowing rhythm. The wet heat, the suction, the scrape of her teeth—it was merciless, expert. The lava lamp’s light oozed over the curve of her back as she bobbed, a hypnotic pendulum of pleasure.
“Jesus,” he whispered, a prayer and a curse.
She pulled off with a soft pop, looking up at him. Her mask was grotesque and beautiful in the dim light. “You taste good,” she said, her voice husky. Then she took him in again, one gloved hand working the base of him in tight, twisting strokes.
Sensation piled upon sensation, a wave threatening to crest too soon. He tugged at her shoulders, gently at first, then insistently. “Wait.”
He sat up, his hands finding her shoulders. "We need to fix this clothing situation a bit first." His fingers traced the seam of her suit, searching for the zipper she’d mentioned downstairs. He found it, a thin metal pull nestled at the base of her spine, and tugged.
The suit hissed open like a shedding skin, revealing the smooth, pale curve of her back. He peeled the material down over her shoulders, helping her shrug it off until the top half pooled at her waist. She wasn't wearing a bra. Her breasts spilled free, full and heavy in the oozing light, and he let out a slow breath. "Wow."
She turned to face him, the mask still on, her hair tumbling over her shoulders. "Your turn," she echoed, her voice catching. She pushed his leather harness down his arms, her movements urgent now. They wrestled with his jeans, a clumsy, shared effort that ended with them both kneeling naked on the worn mattress, facing each other. The only things left were the masks.
"Like this," she whispered, and guided him down onto his back before swinging a leg over him, positioning herself above his mouth while lowering her own towards his cock. The 69 position was an awkward, intimate tangle, a shared becoming. He felt her warm breath first, then the wet, hesitant press of her lips as she took him in again.
She struggled immediately, a muffled sound vibrating against his skin. She pulled back, gasping. "Shit, you're huge," she breathed, the words thick and honest. "Like, for real." The praise, raw and unfiltered, sent a jolt of pure heat straight to his gut.
Then her hips settled over his face, and the world narrowed to the musky, clean scent of her. He didn't hesitate. He pulled her close and laved his tongue flat against her, tasting salt and sweetness. She gasped above him, her mouth returning to him with renewed, frantic energy.
Her movements were greedy and uncoordinated, a wet, sucking struggle to take more of him than she could handle. Every choked attempt, every gasp for air, drove him wild. He focused on her, teasing her clit with the tip of his tongue, then delving deeper into her folds. She was dripping, her hips grinding against his mouth in a relentless rhythm.
In his fervor, as he traced a path upward, his tongue slipped. It pressed against a tighter, different knot of muscle.
She froze. A full-body shudder wracked her. "Oh, god." The words were a broken whisper.
He started to pull away, murmuring an apology into her skin.
"Wait." Her hand clenched his thigh, not pushing him away, but holding him there. Her voice was thin, airy, wrecked. "It might be the ecstasy talking but... can you keep doing that? There." A fragile, wild laugh escaped her. "No one's ever... I've never let anyone."
The confession hung in the humid air between them. He answered with the slow, deliberate press of his tongue, circling that forbidden place. Her whole body sang a silent, shuddering chorus against his.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his lips brushing her inner thigh. “Hey. Is this… is this what you want?”
Her answer was immediate, a breathless exhalation. “Yes. God, yes. I like it. Please.” Her voice fractured on the last word, not in uncertainty, but in a surge of raw, unguarded need that erased any pretense of performance.
He returned with a focused hunger, his mouth moving from her wet, open center back to the tight furl of her ass, licking and kissing until she was moaning openly into his cock, her own movements becoming erratic. He used his thumb to tease her there, applying a gentle, insistent pressure as his tongue circled.
When his thumb finally slipped inside, just the tip, she cried out, a muffled sound of shock and pleasure. Her body went rigid for a second, then melted, accepting him. He worked it slowly, in time with the rhythms of her hips, feeling her clench and release around the intrusion. The dual sensations—his thumb inside her ass, her mouth struggling to take his entire length—created a perfect, frenzied circuit. Her pleasure was a tangible force in the room, a high, keening tension that tightened with every movement of his hand.
Then it broke. Her moan dissolved into a sharp, choked scream against his skin as her orgasm ripped through her. Her hips stuttered against his face, her inner muscles fluttering wildly around his thumb, her thighs clamping against his temples. The intensity made her lose her rhythm on him entirely, her mouth going slack as she shuddered, her weight collapsing forward.
He gently withdrew his hand, guiding her to roll off, both of them gasping on the tangled sheets. The lava lamp burbled, painting her sweat-slicked skin in slow, alien waves. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant thump of the bass below.