The Wonder Woman costume was a cheap, shiny thing from the drugstore, but on Paige it looked like a weapon.
Johnny stood in her bedroom doorway, his own Batman cowl pushed back on his head, and felt his mouth go dry. The red bustier pushed her breasts up into a soft, tempting swell. The blue star-spangled shorts were impossibly brief, riding high on her hips. The gold plastic tiara sat crooked in her dark curls. She was adjusting the lasso—a length of gold rope coiled at her hip—and didn’t look up.
“Does this look stupid?” she asked, finally turning.
He couldn’t speak. He’d had this thing for Wonder Woman since he was nine, since he’d seen Lynda Carter reruns late at night, a confusing heat in his stomach. It wasn’t about the heroics. It was the way the outfit held her. The authority of it. The lasso that could make anyone tell the truth.
“Johnny?”
“No,” he managed. His voice was rough. “It doesn’t look stupid.”
She smiled, a slow, knowing curve of her lips. She saw the effect. She always saw it. “Good. You look… broody. In a good way.” She stepped closer, her fingers brushing the black cape draped over his shoulders. “We should go. Marla’s already there.”
He nodded, his eyes dropping to the swell of her chest, the smooth skin of her thighs where the shorts ended. The cheap satin of the bustier gleamed under her bedroom light. He could smell her perfume—something sweet and vanilla—mixed with the plastic scent of the costume.
The house party was at some senior’s place whose parents were out of town. Music thumped through the walls. Bodies packed the downstairs, a swirl of cartoon characters and movie monsters and slutty nurses. Johnny kept a hand on the small of Paige’s back, guiding her through the crowd. The red satin was warm under his palm.
Every time she moved, the shorts rode higher. Every time she laughed, her breasts shifted against the bustier’s constraint. He was hard in the cheap Batman briefs within ten minutes.
They found Marla, dressed as a cat, her whiskers drawn with eyeliner. “Oh my god, you guys look amazing!” she squealed, her eyes lingering on Paige. “Paige, that is so hot.”
Paige just shrugged, accepting a red cup from some guy in a football jersey. She took a sip, her eyes finding Johnny’s over the rim. They were dark, amused. She knew.
He leaned close, his lips brushing her ear so she could hear him over the bass. “The lasso.”
“What about it?”
“Does it come off?”
She turned her head, her mouth inches from his. Her breath smelled like cheap beer. “Why? You wanna tie me up, Batman?”
A jolt went straight to his cock. “Maybe.”
She held his gaze, then slowly, deliberately, uncoiled the rope from her hip. She let the gold length dangle from her hand. “It’s fake. It wouldn’t hold anything.”
“I don’t care.”
Her smile widened. She looped the rope loosely around his wrist, just once, a fleeting touch. Then she pulled it away, recoiling it. “Later.”
For an hour, he watched her. He watched guys watch her. He watched her hold court, a tiny, curvy goddess in primary colors, completely in command. Every laugh, every toss of her hair, was a deliberate performance. For him. He knew it was for him. The knowledge was a live wire in his gut.
He finally cornered her in a dim hallway near the bathroom, pressing her against the wall. The music was muffled here. His hands found her waist, the bare skin above the shorts. Hot. Smooth.
“We should go,” he said, his voice low.
“The party’s just getting good.”
“Paige.” His thumb stroked her hip bone. “I can’t think. I can’t breathe. All I see is that costume.”
She looked up at him, her playfulness fading into something sharper, hungrier. She pressed her hips forward, feeling his erection against her stomach. “Yeah,” she breathed. “Okay. Let’s go.”
They didn’t say goodbye to Marla. They just slipped out the back door, into the cool October night. The walk to her house was five blocks. He held her hand, his thumb rubbing circles on her palm. Neither spoke. The silence was thick, charged. Every streetlight caught the gold of her tiara, the shine of her bustier.
Her house was dark, her parents already asleep. She led him silently up the stairs to her room, closing the door with a soft click. The streetlamp outside her window painted everything in long, blue shadows.
She turned to face him. “So.”
He reached for the tiara first, carefully lifting it from her curls. He set it on her dresser. It made a tiny plastic sound. Then his hands went to the lasso at her hip. He uncoiled it slowly, the rope rough against his fingers.
“You really like this, don’t you?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer. He brought the rope to his face, inhaling. It smelled like her skin, like vanilla, like the party. He looped it around her wrists, not tying, just holding them together loosely in front of her. The gold stood out against her skin.
“Johnny.”
He leaned in and kissed her, deep and slow. His tongue traced the seam of her lips until she opened for him. He tasted the beer, the sweetness underneath. His hands slid up her arms, over the satin of the bustier. He could feel her heart pounding beneath the stiff material.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. “Take it off.”
“You take it off.”
His fingers fumbled with the clasp at the back. It was flimsy. It snapped open. The bustier went slack. He pushed it down her arms, letting it fall to the floor. Her breasts were bare, pale in the dim light, her nipples tight and dark.
He groaned, low in his throat. He bent his head, taking one nipple into his mouth. He sucked, hard, and she gasped, her bound hands coming up to clutch at his hair. He lavished her with his tongue, then moved to the other, biting gently. She arched against him, a soft whine escaping her lips.
He sank to his knees on the carpet. His hands went to the waistband of the star-spangled shorts. He hooked his fingers in them and pulled them down, taking her white cotton panties with them. She stepped out of the pile of fabric, now standing in just her socks and the gold rope around her wrists.
He looked up at her. The streetlight outlined her curves—the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips, the dark triangle of hair between her legs. She was watching him, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
He leaned forward, pressing his face against her inner thigh. He inhaled her scent—musky, intimate, utterly Paige. He kissed the soft skin there, then higher. His tongue found her. She was already wet, slick and hot. He licked a slow, firm stripe from her opening to her clit.
“Oh, god,” she choked out.
He did it again. And again. He settled in, his hands gripping her hips, holding her still. He feasted on her. He licked and sucked, exploring every fold, drinking her in. The sounds were obscene in the quiet room—wet, hungry, rhythmic. Her thighs trembled against his ears.
Her bound hands twisted in his hair, not pushing, just holding on. “Don’t stop,” she panted. “Right there, please, right there.”
He focused on her clit, circling it with the flat of his tongue, then sucking it gently between his lips. Her hips jerked. Her breathing hitched. He felt her body tightening, coiling. He pushed two fingers inside her, curling them. She was so tight, so hot, clenching around him.
She came with a broken cry, her body convulsing, her knees buckling. He held her up, his mouth still on her, drinking every pulse, every shudder, until she went limp, sagging against the wall.
He stood, his own need a painful ache. He quickly shucked off the Batman costume—the cape, the tunic, the stupid briefs. His cock sprang free, hard and leaking. He took the rope from her wrists and, with shaking hands, looped it around her neck instead, a loose, golden choker.
He backed her toward the bed. She fell onto it, looking up at him, her eyes glazed, the rope gleaming against her throat. He crawled over her, settling between her thighs. The head of his cock nudged her entrance, slick with her arousal and his saliva.
“Tell me,” he whispered, hovering over her.
“Tell you what?” Her voice was hoarse.
“Tell me you want it.”
She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer. The tip of him pressed inside, just an inch. The stretch was exquisite. “I want it,” she breathed. “I want you. Fuck me, Johnny.”
He pushed in, slowly, burying himself to the hilt in one long, smooth stroke. They both gasped. She was so full, so perfect. He stayed there, buried, his forehead against hers, feeling her clench around him.
Then he began to move.
“Fuck me hard, Johnny!” Her voice was a raw, urgent command, breaking the rhythm of his thrusts. “Don’t be gentle! Make me scream!”
She pushed at his chest, rolling out from under him in one fluid motion. The golden rope around her neck swung loose. She got onto her hands and knees on the rumpled bedspread, her back arched, presenting herself to him. The streetlight from the window glazed the curve of her spine, the swell of her ass, the slick, dark cleft between her legs. She was completely open, utterly vulnerable, and the sight stole the air from his lungs.
He didn’t hesitate. He moved behind her, his hands finding her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh. He positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging her soaked entrance. He looked down at the joining—the thick, ruddy length of him against her pink, glistening folds. He pushed forward, not slow, not gentle. He buried himself in one hard, deep stroke.
Paige cried out, a sharp, guttural sound that was half pain, half ecstasy. Her head dropped between her shoulders, her fingers clawing at the bedspread. “Yes,” she gasped. “Like that. God, just like that.”
He set a brutal pace. Each thrust was a full, driving piston, his hips slapping against the backs of her thighs. The wet, rhythmic sound filled the room, a filthy counterpoint to their ragged breathing. The bedsprings groaned in protest. He watched himself disappear into her, over and over, her body yielding, taking all of him. The visual was almost too much—the obscene intimacy of it, the complete possession.
“You see it?” he grunted, his voice thick. “You see what you do to me?”
She glanced back over her shoulder, her eyes black with lust, her lips parted. A strand of dark, curly hair was stuck to her sweaty temple. “I feel it,” she panted. “I feel all of it. Don’t stop.”
He leaned over her, bracing one hand on the bed beside her head. His other hand snaked around her hip, his fingers finding the swollen nub of her clit. He rubbed tight, fast circles as he fucked her. The change in angle was immediate, deeper, hitting a place inside her that made her whole body jolt.
“There!” she shrieked, her back bowing. “Oh, fuck, Johnny, right there!”
Her inner muscles began to flutter around him, a frantic, clenching pulse. He could feel her orgasm building, a gathering storm. He drove into her harder, faster, his own control fraying. The smell of sex was everywhere—musky, salty, primal. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the small of her back.
“Come for me,” he growled into her ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. “Scream like you said.”
She did. Her climax tore through her with a violence that shook the bed. A long, ragged scream ripped from her throat, muffled only by her biting into the comforter. Her body convulsed, her ass pushing back against him, her channel milking his cock in rhythmic, desperate spasms. He kept thrusting, riding her through it, the sensations so intense his vision blurred at the edges.
Her collapse was gradual. The tension bled from her limbs, and she sank onto her forearms, her forehead pressed to the bed, breathing in great, shuddering gulps. He slowed, but didn’t stop. He was too close. The need was a white-hot coil in his gut, tightening with every slide of her slick, spent body around him.
He pulled out. The sudden emptiness made her whimper. He flipped her onto her back. Her eyes were wide, surprised. He hooked his hands under her knees, pushing her legs back toward her chest, spreading her wide. He entered her again in one fierce, claiming thrust. This angle was even more profound. He could see everything—her face, her breasts jiggling with each movement, the place where their bodies joined.
“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice a rough scrape.
Her glazed eyes focused on his. She was utterly wrecked, beautifully used. She reached up, her fingers tracing the golden rope still around her neck, then letting her hand fall to her own breast, pinching her nipple. The gesture, so blatantly self-aware, so Paige, sent a final, electric jolt through him.
His rhythm fractured. His thrusts became short, frantic, desperate. “Paige,” he choked out. It was a warning, a plea, a prayer.
“I’m here,” she whispered, her other hand coming up to cup his jaw. Her thumb stroked his cheek. “I’m right here. Let go.”
He came with a broken groan, his body locking, his hips grinding deep as he emptied himself into her. It felt endless, a wave of pure, blinding release that pulled him under. He saw stars. He felt her warmth flooding him, her legs tightening around his back, holding him inside as he shuddered through the last pulses.
He collapsed onto her, his weight driving a soft “oof” from her lungs. He was boneless, spent, his face buried in the sweaty crook of her neck. The rope was between them, a cool, metallic line against their heated skin. He could feel her heart hammering against his chest, a frantic echo of his own slowing beat.
For a long time, they didn’t move. The only sounds were their slowing breaths and the distant hum of a car passing on the street outside. The room smelled of sex and sweat and her vanilla perfume. The Halloween night pressed against the window, a world away.
Eventually, she shifted beneath him. He rolled off, landing on his back beside her, staring up at her ceiling where a plastic glow-in-the-dark star constellation was peeling off. His body felt heavy, liquid. Hers was a warm line of heat against his side.
“So,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Wonder Woman, huh?”
He turned his head to look at her. She was smiling, a small, knowing, exhausted curve of her lips. Her fingers went to the rope at her neck, fiddling with the loop.
“Yeah,” he admitted, his own voice rough. “Since I was a kid.”
“The lasso?”
“The lasso. The boots. The whole… thing.” He gestured vaguely toward the pile of satin and stars on her floor.
She laughed, a soft, breathy sound. “You’re such a dork.” She said it with so much affection it felt like a caress. She untied the golden rope, letting it slither off the bed and onto the carpet with a soft thump. The skin of her neck was marked with a faint, pink line. She rubbed at it absently. “I liked it,” she said, quieter now. “The rope. You using it.”
He propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at her. Her makeup was smudged, her hair a wild halo. She had never looked more beautiful. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Felt… I don’t know. Real.” She met his gaze. “You weren’t scared of me tonight. You weren’t scared of anything.”
He hadn’t been. The fantasy had stripped away the last of his hesitation, leaving only a pure, hungry want. He leaned down and kissed her, slow and deep and tender. A different kind of possession. When he pulled back, her eyes were soft.
“We’re a mess,” she murmured.
“We are.”
They lay in silence for another few minutes, listening to the house settle. Somewhere down the hall, a toilet flushed. Her parents. The real world, intruding.
“We should clean up,” she said, but made no move to get up.
“In a minute.” He traced the line of her collarbone with a fingertip. “You really screamed.”
She grinned, a flash of her old, wicked self. “Told you to make me.” She stretched, a long, cat-like motion that made her back arch. “My throat hurts.”
He smiled, a real, easy smile. He felt loose-limbed and powerful and utterly, completely hers. He swung his legs off the bed, his feet hitting the cool hardwood. “I’ll get you water.”
He stood, naked, and padded quietly out of her room and down the dark hall to the bathroom. He drank straight from the tap, the water cold and shocking. He filled a plastic cup for her. In the mirror, his reflection was flushed, his hair sticking up in all directions. He looked like a guy who had just had the best sex of his life.
When he returned, she was sitting up against the headboard, the sheet pulled up to her waist. She took the cup and drank greedily, water trickling from the corner of her mouth. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching her.
“Your parents are up,” he said softly.
“Just my dad. Nighttime pee. He won’t check.” She set the empty cup on her nightstand. Her eyes traveled over him, thoughtful. “You should probably go soon.”
He nodded. The spell was breaking. The Halloween magic was fading into the practical need to sneak a boy out of her house. He found his discarded Batman briefs and stepped into them, then his jeans. He left the tunic and cape in a heap. He’d carry them.
She watched him dress, her expression unreadable. When he was done, he came back to the bed, leaning down to kiss her one more time. “Tomorrow?” he whispered against her lips.
“Tomorrow,” she confirmed. She squeezed his hand. “Now get out of here before my dad finds you and has a heart attack.”
He slipped out her bedroom door, down the stairs, and out the front door into the cool, silent night. The walk home was quiet. His body ached in the best way. He could still smell her on his skin. He looked up at the orange Halloween moon, a perfect, glowing sphere in the black sky, and he knew, with a certainty that felt older than his sixteen years, that he would never forget this night. Not the costume, not the rope, not the way she looked back at him over her shoulder, asking for everything. He had discovered a part of himself in her bedroom, a hunger he hadn’t known he was allowed to have, and she had met it, match for match. They had discovered it together.