Preview (Patreon)

Getting onto the grounds of Wayne Manor was sinfully easy. All Selina had to do was slip between the bars of the gate. She wasn’t even wearing a corset.

Oh, she knew that Wayne Manor was even better guarded than the Hall of Justice, the whole thing an auxiliary line of defense for the Batcave underneath, a sort of early warning system that Bruce could and would sacrifice if he pleased. But that was alright. She’d done this to get Bruce’s attention. There was a reason she’d worn a particularly tight catsuit tonight, and it wasn’t just to get through the bars. Her high-heeled boots swept through the crisply manicured grass of the lawn, glistening wet with the dew of the morning that hadn’t arrived yet. 

There were floodlights illuminating the façade of the manor, as well as the mighty oak trees that pillared the landscape. Selina could’ve evaded them easily, sticking to the shadows, but she enjoyed letting them cast her silhouette about, a shade with wild devil’s ears. She stopped flouncing toward the house when she felt Bruce’s eyes on her.

Not one curtain had been disarrayed, she couldn’t catch a glimpse of him, but she knew he was watching her. He could ninja around all he liked, hiding himself from her, but she always knew when her little show had an audience or was for her own benefit.

At her neck, an O-ring hung like the tag on a collar. It was meant to provide a tempting, distracting target, teasing any adversary with the knowledge that if he just got a hold of it and tugged, he would be graced with the sight of what hid underneath her thin leathers—usually so sheer that he could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra. Bruce was the only man who’d shown no sign of being tempted. Which was maybe why he was the only one who’d actually managed to grab the brass ring.

She did it for him. For him, and only for him. Moving only the very tip, the clawed tip, of her forefinger, Selina hooked the O-ring that crowned her zipper. Her hold was so precarious that if she’d pulled any harder, her grip would’ve slipped off—and if the weight she put on the zipper was any less, it wouldn’t have budged. But before Bruce’s eyes, the part in her zipper slid down the middle of her body, down her throat, between her breasts, over her belly. Replacing the skintight black of her neat, narrow leathers with the dusky suppleness of her bare skin, a swath of it rolling from the lips beneath her cowl to the toned muscles above her groin. 

Her breasts were bigger than Harley’s, but smaller than Ivy’s—C-cups, with a boastful roundness and pertness that seemed to swell against her parted leathers, pushing her catsuit out to make the gulf within her cleavage yawn open. The vee of exposed skin was given a very wide mouth, her suit practically slipping from her shoulders as it struggled to contain her ripe breasts. Selina gave a little meow. She wore no bra.