Chapter 4: Exhobiation
The bass in The Litter Box had become a throbbing, living entity. Wednesday moved through it, Enid’s hand a hot brand on her lower back, guiding her through the press of bodies. Sybil’s words echoed beneath the music, a cold, clean script underneath the sensory filth. A project. A peace offering. A lock. Her smile felt plastered on, her purr an engine she couldn’t turn off.
“You’re so tense, baby,” Enid murmured into her ear, her breath sweet with vodka-cranberry. Her other hand came up, fingers dancing along the edge of Wednesday’s mesh top, teasing the sensitive skin beneath. “Let go. It’s just us.”
It’s never just us, Wednesday thought. It’s them, watching.
Bianca materialized beside them, a phantom in sequins. She held out two shot glasses filled with something that glowed a sickly green. “Kryptonite Kamikazes. They’ll melt your inhibitions.”
“She doesn’t need hers melted,” Enid laughed, but took a shot. She nudged Wednesday. “Come on, for me?”
Wednesday took the glass. The liquid tasted of synthetic lime and regret. She threw it back, the burn a welcome, familiar pain. A cheer went up from their circle. Ajax whooped. Xavier gave her a soft, sad smile.
Then the game changed. A new song crashed in, heavier, with a grinding, predatory rhythm. The crowd condensed, a sea of undulating limbs. A guy with barbed-wire tattoos stumbled backward, his elbow catching the strap of Wednesday’s top. There was a sharp snap.
The flimsy mesh gave way entirely. The top slithered down her torso, a whisper of black against her skin, and pooled at her feet.
Silence didn’t fall. The music didn’t stop. But for Wednesday, the world hiccuped.
Cool, damp air hit her skin. Her six breasts—a fact she’d known but never seen—were fully exposed to the writhing, neon-strobed room. The lower pairs were fuller, heavier than the top, a bizarre, functional cascade of pale flesh and dark nipples that puckered instantly in the chill. Her tail lashed, uncontrolled.
She froze. This was the breach. This was where the performance would crack.
No one gasped. No one pointed. Ajax chuckled. “Nice one, dude!” the tattooed guy slurred, giving a thumbs-up before turning back to his friends.
Enid just smiled, a lazy, appreciative curl of her lips. “Oops,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. She stepped closer, her body shielding Wednesday from most of the crowd, but her gaze was a physical caress. “Well, that saves time.”
Bianca’s eyes drank her in, hooded and dark. “Scandalous, Addams. Even for you.”
“The pants, too!” someone yelled from the periphery—Yoko, grinning widely.
A collective, playful groan of agreement rose. Before Wednesday could react, Enid’s hands were at her waist, fingers hooking into the waistband of the skin-tight leather. “They have a point,” Enid said, her voice dropping to that possessive growl. “Can’t have you half-assing it, can we?”
The programming warred with the core. The core screamed. The programming offered a script: Playful. Seductive. Accepting. Her hands, moving of their own accord, came up to cover herself, but the gesture was feeble, theatrical. She met Enid’s excited gaze and gave a tiny, forced shrug. The ultimate surrender.
Enid peeled the pants down with practiced ease. Wednesday stepped out of them, standing barefoot on the sticky floor, completely nude amidst the fully clothed crowd. Her tail twitched erratically. The chill was everywhere.
“Crowd wants a show, kitty,” Bianca purred, sipping her drink. “Give them one.”
Enid took Wednesday’s hand and led her, not toward the shadowy edges, but toward a raised platform near a wall of mirrored tiles. “Dance with me.”
Numb, Wednesday let herself be pulled up. The vantage point was worse. She could see everything. The sea of faces, some glancing up with idle curiosity, others with open hunger. And in the mirrored wall, she saw it.
Herself.
Full-length, illuminated in fractured disco light. The body was undeniably feline in its lean lines, but brutally, biologically altered. The ears were the least of it. The six breasts were a glaring, monstrous fact. They hung, heavy and pronounced, the areolas dark against her pallor. Her hips flared, leading down to the dark thatch of hair between her thighs. The tail emerged just above, twitching with a mind of its own.
It was a body built for utility. For display. For giving and receiving pleasure. It was a prison of flesh.
And as she stared, a low rumble began in her chest. It vibrated up through her throat, a deep, resonant purr. She wasn’t happy. She wasn’t content. She was terrified, enraged, dissociated. But the body, the beautiful, modified machine, expressed its state as pleasure. The purr grew louder, audible even over the music, a contented engine humming in a condemned vehicle.
“See?” Enid whispered, wrapping her arms around Wednesday from behind. Her hands came up to cup her breasts, not just the top pair, but her palms spreading to fondle the second set as well. “You love it. You’re singing for us.” Enid’s mouth found the point where her neck met her shoulder and bit down, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to claim.
The dual sensation—the warm, kneading hands on her sensitive flesh, the sharp teeth—sent a bolt of white-hot electricity straight to her core. A gasp tore from her, ragged and real. Her back arched, pushing her breasts more fully into Enid’s hands.
“That’s it,” Enid coaxed. She turned Wednesday in her arms to face her. The crowd below was a blur. Only Enid’s glowing, eager eyes existed. “Let me taste you.”
Enid’s mouth descended onto hers, consuming and wet. Her hands continued their exploration, roaming over the unfamiliar topography of her ribs, the heavy swell of each breast, pinching nipples until Wednesday whimpered into the kiss. The purr became a ragged, continuous thrum.
Then Enid dropped to her knees on the grimy platform.
Before Wednesday could process it, Enid’s face was between her thighs. Her tongue, hot and broad, licked a ruthless stripe from her opening to her clit. Wednesday’s legs buckled. Her hands flew to Enid’s pink hair, not to push away, but to anchor herself as the world dissolved into raw sensation.
Enid ate her with a frantic, worshipful hunger. She lapped at her folds, sucked her clit into her mouth, fucking her with her tongue like she was starving for it. The obscene, wet sounds were lost in the music, but Wednesday heard them, each one a nail in the coffin of her old self. Her hips began to move of their own accord, grinding against Enid’s face, seeking more pressure, more friction.
“Fuck, yes, you taste so good,” Enid moaned, pulling back for a second, her chin gleaming. “You’re so fucking wet for me. Everyone can see.”
Wednesday’s eyes flew open. In the mirror, she saw the tableau: Enid on her knees, her own nude body arched, glistening with sweat, trembling as her roommate’s tongue worked her over. And below, people were watching. Some were dancing, ignoring them. Others had stopped, drinks in hand, watching with casual interest. Bianca stood at the foot of the platform, one eyebrow arched, her expression unreadable.
The shame should have been crippling. It was there, a frozen knot in her gut. But the programming, the wiring, flooded her system with a counteracting flood of endorphins. The exposure became a turn-on. The watching eyes became applause. Her purr hit a frenzied pitch.
“Come on, Wednesday,” Enid growled, sliding two fingers inside her without warning. They curled, rubbing a spot that made Wednesday see stars. “Come for the whole fucking club. Let them hear you.”
It was too much. The invasion of fingers, the ruthless tongue, the humiliation, the mechanical pleasure—it coalesced into a devastating wave. Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and unwelcome. A raw, choked scream tore from her throat, part sob, part roar. Her knees gave out completely.
Enid caught her, lowering her gently to the platform, cradling her shuddering body. She kissed her collarbone, her breasts, licking the sweat from her skin. “My good girl,” she whispered, over and over. “My perfect, filthy girl.”
Wednesday lay spent, staring at the ceiling through tears she refused to shed. The purr still rattled in her chest, a lie her body told the world. Over Enid’s shoulder, in the mirror, she watched her own devastated, satiated face. She watched Bianca turn and walk away, a faint, speculative smile on her lips.
The plan was the only solid thing left. The office. The portrait. The lock.
She had seen the full architecture of her cage now, in the mirrors of The Litter Box. And as Enid helped her dress, cooing soft, affectionate nonsense, Wednesday Addams began, silently, to pick it apart.