More previewing (Patreon)

Felicia left slowly, giving Selina plenty of time to realize what an ass she was being and apologize. She dressed in her own room, in front of the three full-length mirrors that showed off both her profiles, and her full frontal. First, she admired her body. There was a wistful longing in it now, knowing that Selina’s was identical—that while she could still touch herself, it wasn’t quite the same. A sheen of sweat from the sex still covered her, the glimmer moving with her heaving breasts as she breathed heavily. Added to that was Selina’s juices from her last squirt. The slightly heady cream ran down from between Felicia’s cleavage and some of the left globe, drizzling thickly down her belly like a glazing of honey. Felicia ran her fingers over her tummy. The cream was still warm, and her body surged at her own touch, so much like Selina’s. It was Selina’s, after all.

Scowling, Felicia turned and went to get a moist towelette, for once ignoring the sight of her own swaying buttocks receding from the reflection. She returned and ran the towelette over her body, meaning to wipe away the vestiges of the sex still trembling in her, and somewhat successful, but mostly smearing the scent of Selina into her body, still moist and overwarm.

She had to be dressed. She suddenly found the sight of her own body hateful—the once-mesmerizing spectacle of her flesh flushed by her own doppelganger’s ministrations was only a cruel reminder of how angry she was. She pulled on a simple white pair of panties first, and was almost overcome with how cool they felt against her heated cunt, still burning with the lust Selina had awoken in her. The urge to return and ravish Selina, hatefuck an apology from her, then accept that apology with long, slow tonguings… overwhelming. Felicia stared at her reflection, so much more naked now that the glimmer of white lace was at least attempting to marshal her modesty, in overwhelming contrast to the magnificently tawny flesh that descended in pillars of sculpted muscle, miles of flat stomach, hills of bounteous breasts.

Then, for a moment, it seemed as if the eroticism of her own body was fighting this censorship, coming alive and resisting it. A dampness formed in the crotch of her panties, plastering them to the subtle curvature of her labia, revealing every twist in the path that a tongue or finger could take to please her. Felicia actually gasped—the view was like she was about to go down on Selina all over again. She turned to the side, seeing her ripe buttocks—undeniably fleshy, yet high and firm, caressed by the thin canvas of soft, subtle lace that hugged the inner curvings of her cheeks, disappeared into the cleft. The pressure of those tight panties was so much like how Selina would touch her, pressing in with quick affection and warmth, before spanking her.

Her nipples were hard, desperately hard, she needed to cover them with her bra. Again, Felicia gasped as the heady masses of her flesh were constrained by lace cups to match the panties around her hips. They resisted, seeming momentarily too engorged to fit, too heated, too pleasurable—the swollen globes felt pregnant with desire, begging for a soothing hand to calm them… or stimulate them further and further, racing the heat in her cunt to completion. Breathing hard, Felicia set the hook. The strap cut slightly into her flesh, making her breasts seem to be burgeoning that much fuller, set powerfully inside even the low-cut bra as if barely contained. Felicia ran her fingertips over the roll of her breasts, lips tugged into a fierce smile as she felt the smooth warm flesh give way almost shockingly to the lace detail atop her bra. The whiteness of the bra against her own skin made it seem almost translucent, the cups not hiding her tits, but revealing them in a decadent shade of creamy white chocolate.

Her costume now. She picked up the long skin of black rubber, trimmed with white fur like a mink stole. Held it in front of her semi-nude body like she was trying on a dress. The rubber was just a shade too small to cover her body; she could see an outline of pink flesh around it in the mirror, shining through the bristling furs. As usual, it would be almost bursting at the seams when she put it on.

A new kind of arousal was taking her now. An engagement with the world, an opening of senses, an adrenaline rush. She stepped into the heavy blackness of the legs, her bare feet clawing the dance stirrups away from the hems, groaning piquantly as she pulled the crotch tight against her groin, a leather seam worming deliciously into friction. She shrugged on the arms next, fitting the toned muscle deep into the sleeves, filling the gloves, wiggling the claws at their ends. She straightened, rearranged the fur collar so it was outside the suit instead of in, then looked at herself.

Her costume clung to her, a little loose, the shiny black rubber catching light to headlight every curve in her voluptuous body. The two halves of the top rested to either side of her huge breasts, naturally, as if unable to even dare constrain them. Felicia ran her hands over her body again, purring now as she felt the cool rubber that enshrouded her. Something wasn’t right though. The bra visible atop her breasts was too constraining, too cumbersome, too boring. With a swift stroke of her claws, she severed it and pulled it away. Now her breasts, thick and full and girthy, demanding attention, even from Felicia herself. She tucked them away, pulling the rubber over them, as far as she could, then pulling the zipper up. With each set of teeth that meshed together, the pressure increased, pushing in silkily on her tits, a firm touch exciting her large nipples. She would never pull the zipper up for the sake of modesty, but she loved just how tight the rubber could be, a continuous fondling of her breasts with every movement, every motion, like she was fucking the night, letting it grope her through her costume. She loved that feeling, especially in the dark.

Felicia gasped as she forced the zipper up as far as possible, only managing a precarious perch amidst her cleavage, the ring of the zipper jangling with each heaving breath, light sparkling off it. The tops of her breasts—an expanse of cleavage to rival any barbarian serving wench—were circled on all sides by a wreath of Persian-cat fur, the deep line of décolletage pushing down the low-cut opening nearly to pink areola. “Mmm… tighter every night,” she moaned, ghosting a smile at her reflection. “Someday I’ll just have to go topless. Let everyone see…”

Her boots came last. Boots and choker and mask, so she was tight all over, her costume pressing in on her just about everything. Her enormous breasts, her tiny waist, her flaring buttocks, her long, toned legs, they are all being massaged by the constraining rubber, or the patent leather of her stiletto boots, her bitch boots, that reached up over her knees towards her thighs, like a foreplay that never got to the prize. But that was outside, of course. Stealing was the climax, not the prep. And she was going to steal everything she could get her hands on.