Chapter 4 - The Show

Barbara stifled a look of utter shock.

"And you're right. All these girls? Trafficked from who knows where," Catwoman whispered on. "I don't like pimps. And I definitely can't stand this smug little shit." 

Everything suddenly made sense.

Batgirl fights Catwoman, who disappears into the sex club with the notebook. She wants to make a sale. Doesn't matter; Marchetti's goons lift it from her. Catwoman makes a deal to get it back. A deal to show off her 'sexy new sidekick'. Batgirl shows up just as planned, held tightly under the weight of the notebook. Barbara had scanned the room dozens of times; wherever it was, Marchetti was keeping it out of sight. Catwoman had shown up with a plan, and despite all her cleverness, that plan had failed.

Barbara looked over her shoulder and parted her lips as if to give Catwoman a kiss. The table moaned and whistled at the two in anticipation. Barbara's breasts threatened to spill out from under her arm, and Catwoman leaned down so the two of them could taste each others' mouths. From his throne, Anthony Marchetti smiled at his playthings.

Barbara rested her lips against Catwoman's neck and pretended to kiss it, sneaking in a whisper as she did: "This is why you told him I was your sidekick? How dare you drag me into this!" 

Catwoman feigned a moan and turned Barbara's chin so she could fake a neck kiss of her own. "Had to promise him a show. He gets to watch Cat and Kitten play. I get the notebook back." 

Barbara's skin goosefleshed at the touch of Catwoman's warm, pillowy lips — the show really was beginning. She moaned involuntarily as the sudden sensation made her flinch, and turned to fake another kiss on her neck: "Except it's not yours — mmh — where is it?" 

Catwoman faked another neck kiss back. Barbara felt a tongue beneath her ear, and desperately stifled another soft moan. Catwoman's fake kisses didn't feel fake. "If I knew that — aah — I'd have killed him already." 

As the tension and heat between the two built up, the occasional cheer and moan bubbled around the dinner table. "Yeah, look at 'em go," Barbara heard Marchetti moan. "Now we're talkin'."

Batgirl faked a neck kiss. "I should kick your ass." 

Catwoman "faked" a neck kiss. "Help me kick his ass and you'll get your chance." 

"Yeah, keep doin' that," Marchetti grumbled.

Barbara noticed him reaching beneath the table, his arm pumping up and down. Obviously aroused at the sight of two beautiful, mostly-naked women necking and massaging each other in his dining room, he shuffled his black dress slacks under his thighs to masturbate more comfortably. The other men around him, never having pants to begin with, simply started stroking themselves in agreement. Or, their whores did it for them.

Barbara burned inside with a realization. Anger, shame, embarrassment, seduction, arousal, objectification. This was the mud Catwoman wanted to drag her through: she wanted to humiliate Batgirl, to make sure she was never feared in Gotham City to begin with. She wouldn't be vengeance, and she wouldn't be the night. She'd be the Gotham City underworld's masturbation fantasy.

Catwoman shamelessly licked Barbara's neck now, and her body flinched at the sensation of wet tongue and soft lips. "Come on, Kitten," she whispered. "Keep them distracted. Enjoy it a little. Show them what you can do." 

Images danced behind Barbara's eyes. Batman's disappointed scowl, full of regret for giving her a chance to serve alongside him. Robin's guilty pout, the frown full of the shame of letting her talk him into going it alone. Alfred's silent, dignified gaze, which could easily hide the shame behind his eyes. Her father's utter shock once the notebook got out and somebody somewhere got the upper hand on Gotham's last, best hope to get criminals like Marchetti in prison.

The notebook. That was all that mattered.

As Catwoman licked her neck, Barbara glared at Anthony Marchetti with fake bedroom eyes and let her breasts slowly slide all the way out from under her forearm.

"There's my Kitten," Catwoman purred.

Barbara cringed inwardly at the thought of eyes on her naked breasts. In training, she sought physical perfection in the gym as Batman taught her; in private, she was very self-conscious about her body. She'd always thought her breasts were too small to be noticeable, but too big for her to be taken seriously. She felt like her nipples sat too wide and too high, and that muscle gained from bench press reps and obstacle vaults had only made it worse. She was nervous about the chance of being intimate with Dick, and felt a sort of twisted relief when he'd turned her down — at least she wouldn't have to share an anxious moment with him and all her insecurities about her body.

Instead, she would have an anxious moment with Catwoman.

Everyone hooted and awed at the shy, naked girl in the Bat mask. Catwoman moaned with theatric sensuality. Marchetti whispered a curse, but couldn't spit out the word from excitement — he seemed very pleased, and that made Barbara feel ill. Even the towering Mister Z whistled and covered himself a bit more tightly. One of the mobsters started stroking himself a lot more quickly, and one of the women next to him hooked a leg over the arm of the chair and started rubbing herself in agreement. The sounds of wet stroking eventually caught up with the gasps.

"Wow, Kitten." Catwoman purred, "I knew you had a nice pair under there, but... wow . I may be a little jealous."

Barbara wasn't sure if Catwoman was playing to the crowd, flattering her, or just trying to get under her skin again. The thought of the room full of people gawking mixed a cocktail of emotions in Barbara’s gut — she couldn't ignore that one of those was power. But she swallowed the disgust that came along with that power, and used it.

"Take a good, long look, Marchetti," Barbara growled, cradling her breasts together like she'd seen Catwoman do. "You'll need to stroke it to a thousand of your shipping container whores before you ever see anything this good."

Catwoman laughed heartily and stepped beside Barbara for a moment, proudly displaying her own larger, heavier breasts. Marchetti's goons hooted as if they agreed. He ignored them.

"Take the other hand away," he ordered.

Barbara secretly gnashed her teeth in disgust, and the words sent a flustered heat over her body. She forced a seductive grin as she glanced down at the palm she had covering her crotch, and kept her response short and sweet:

"You show me yours, I'll show you mine, Little Italy ."

The room rumbled at the challenge, the naivety of this dumb red-haired girl who'd dare challenge Anthony Marchetti in the throne room of his own palace. He seemed to swell in the attention, and just as Barbara hoped, he played into the gambit.

"Oh yeah, Bat-Chick? Here you go," he offered proudly, standing in his chair. Barbara had seen more penises in the past ten minutes that she had in her entire life thus far, and his was just another meat stick at this point, hard and veiny and red. For a small man, Marchetti's seemed fairly normal-sized. She wouldn't give him that, though.

"Very cute little guy you have there, Big Guy ," Batgirl groaned disappointedly. "Anybody else got anything bigger for me? Come on, boys, who's in the audience tonight?"

Marchetti's men stood enthusiastically from their seats — even the man with the banker's briefcase — and Barbara ignored the revulsion she felt at their completely unsensual bodies. They presented a bouquet of various-sized erections over the tabletop, like disgusting knights making a lewd pledge together at their castle. Some of the whores stroked their men as they stood, the wet sounds echoing over the room. She pretended to peruse them as though shopping for the best one, tapping her finger on her chin in hopes no one would see the embarrassment flushing her skin. But she swallowed the unease, satisfied that her strategy had worked: now, none of them could reach under the table for their guns.

"Well, that just won't do at all," Barbara pouted. "I mean, what makes any of you guys think you can stick those..."

Fighting every instinct in her bones, Barbara slowly pulled her hand away from her crotch, revealing her feminine lips.

"...inside this?" Barbara finished, revealing the tight slit between her legs. 

She was smooth, clean, and perfectly shaved — she'd done so in the shower just that morning. She liked to have the secret knowledge that she looked nice down there, but she especially did so before she went out on patrols with Dick. It was a silly, misplaced ritual that she used to help herself feel sexy around him. It was pathetic, and she hated herself for it. And now, she was showing that shame to everyone.

"Fuck me," Marchetti groaned, masturbating himself slowly as he stared at Barbara's pussy.

"Not even if you begged, Marchetti," Barbara growled, hoping her voice wouldn’t crack. She spread her stance a bit and cocked her hip to the side, offering everyone a better view. They seemed to respond, and she saw various hands start stroking faster.

"Guess you'll never know if the carpet matches the drapes, Big Guy," Catwoman cooed as she settled in close again, wrapping her breasts around Barbara's arm. She ran her fingertips dangerously close to Barbara's inner thigh. "I like a girl who knows how to keep a secret."

"You a virgin, Bat-Chick?" Anthony Marchetti asked as he stroked his sticky erection.

Barbara was, but she hid the thought in the back of her head to keep it from him. Her stomach turned at the absolutely unwanted image her mind manifested of him penetrating her, but she took the energy and spat it back in his face.

"What I am is tight enough to break your little cannoli clean off, Marchetti," she growled.

As the crowd howled at the fiery Batgirl, Barbara arched her back to fake necking with Catwoman again. The piercing comment seemed to land a little bit more softly. When she'd arrived, Batgirl was defiant and hostile. Now, Batgirl was defiant and hostile, but she was naked. She'd given Marchetti what he wanted, as she suspected most people did, so that was all that mattered. Barbara moaned theatrically and gritted her teeth through the fear as she considered her fate. She touched an ear of Catwoman's mask and moaned, and Catwoman caressed her in return.

"Ooh! — What the hell is the game plan here?" Barbara whispered. She moaned again, partly for show, and partly as a reaction.

Catwoman grabbed Barbara gently by the throat and sucked on her ear in response. "Aah — I'm waiting on my intel to give me the location of the notebook." 

Barbara's fingertips caressed Catwoman's ass, and feigned nibbles on the arch of her ear. "Mmh — S-stop kissing me. What intel?" 

Catwoman flinched, and raked her fingernails gently over Barbara's breast. "Ooh — No. And, that intel." 

A secret look-over-there gesture between the two of them brought them to massage and lick each other while switching places in an erotic dance. Catwoman's hands moved Barbara into a pose where they could both simulate rubbing and kissing while also casting hidden glances at Catwoman's next secret:

A small, silent black cat stalking around the floor of the dining room. Searching.

Barbara's eyes darted away, and she faked licking Catwoman's neck. "What is that thing doing in here?" she whispered.

"She's my intel," Catwoman answered.

Barbara had seen case files of the aftermath of Catwoman's burglaries in almost impossible-to-breach scenarios. One came to mind: a museum with multi-tiered security systems and laser-detection grids with gaps too small to slip through. That one made sense now — she'd never considered the grids weren't too small for an actual cat to slip through.

"And she's almost found it. Keep. Marchetti. Distracted." 

Barbara's stomach churned at the reminder that she was much more likely to die of bullet wounds before shame. It only made tactical sense that there should be some firepower in the room to protect Marchetti: the only question now was how much. She'd seen four guns drawn during his initial childish meltdown, but given that everyone was naked except for him, there were no shoulder or ankle holsters to count. Under the table was the only place to put a gun that made sense. Ten chairs on either side, five men on each side: at least ten shooters from two firing lines, not counting Marchetti and Z, unless they—

"—ahh! Knock it off," Barbara whispered as Catwoman interrupted her tactical analysis. She felt the tall, sultry woman nibble on her neck and caress the small of her back in just the right way.

"No," repeated Catwoman. "They need to believe it or this show's over. Besides, aren't you enjoying it?" She gently traced a hand around Barbara's side and squeezed her breast with a whisper-light touch, causing Barbara to moan involuntarily.

"Aah — I'm starting — mmh! — to think this is more about your enjoyment," she replied, her hands shivering a bit as she touched Catwoman's waist and traced the angles of her wide, soft hips. The fact that she wondered for a moment if she actually was enjoying it turned her stomach even more: Barbara Gordon wasn't some lounge stripper, and she certainly wasn't a lesbian. She was a brilliant criminologist and, as Batgirl, she was a crusader. A manipulative woman in a catsuit couldn't make her forget who she was — except that, more than a few times tonight, she had.

They carried on for what felt like ages to Barbara. Catwoman's touch was carefully, intimately sensual, and her body was as warm as ever. In the frustration and shame behind keeping up the act, Barbara found the deep, distant hint of pleasure getting far closer to the surface than she liked. Catwoman knew the right spots to lick, the right pressure to nibble with, and the right way to touch. Not only was Catwoman very in tune with her sexuality, but that this was definitely not her first time doing any of the things she was doing. She had a practiced hand, and she enjoyed her work. Barbara pushed the thought away as she watched Catwoman's four-legged infiltrator out of the corner of her eye, and used the disgusting image of grunting, masturbating mobsters to take the edge off of Catwoman's decadent tease.

"Oh, shit," Catwoman suddenly whispered. A kiss on the neck.

"What?" A lick on the ear.

"The big guy has it." The soft touch of a warm nipple to a cold one. "The actual big guy." 

"Oh, shit," echoed Barbara. Fingers caressing a thigh.

That made sense — Marchetti would be a fool not to leave it with his enforcer. McCallahan was an ogre of a man, and the only thing keeping Catwoman from ripping Marchetti apart. Barbara made a silent note to herself, a tactical reminder to get her hands on it before Catwoman did, somehow. Suddenly, it struck Barbara that Mister Z was naked: he had no pockets, no sleeves.

"Wait... he has it where, exactly?" 

Catwoman's small, jet-black feline companion was almost invisible against the dark, warm hues of the wooden floor, and utterly silent. It sat patiently on the floor directly between Mister Z's legs, its tail twitching curiously as it looked up, its round yellow eyes darting between the huge man's crotch and Catwoman's gaze. Z stood in a daze, completely oblivious to the spy literally right under his nose.

It struck Barbara that his massive, notebook-sized hands were still folded across his groin, patiently covering his undoubtedly notebook-sized manhood.

"Oh, gross," Barbara whispered. A soft breath on the neck.

"Ugh, yuck," Catwoman agreed. A gentle bite on the earlobe.

The cat sat patiently between Z's legs, having completed its duties. It was obviously well-trained, and knew exactly how to find what it'd been taught to. But now, the job was done. The cat's expression grew confused at what to do next, and it began walking figure eights around Mister Z's massive feet.

"No, kitty," Catwoman whispered to herself. Her hands caressed Barbara's lower back again.

Maybe the cat couldn't hear. Maybe the whispers were too low, and the sounds of wet stroking and satisfied grunting were too loud. Maybe Catwoman's training wasn't as good as she thought it was. But now, the cat sat facing Mister Z and looked over its shoulder at Catwoman. Long, white teeth flashed as the cat yawned.

"No, no, no, kitty!" A nervous, tight squeeze around Barbara's waist.

The cat looked up at Mister Z's groin. It arched its back and swatted a black paw in the air at his manhood, then turned in place and sat back down. Small yellow eyes met Catwoman's, waiting for instructions. She could feel Catwoman's heartbeat pulsing in her chest as they held each other close. This cat was an important part of her plan, and that plan was about to go wrong as well.

"Oh shit." Fingernails dug into Barbara's hips. "Get ready for a fight, Kitten." 

"Catwoman?" Barbara whispered nervously. "What's the signal to stop that thing?!" 

Then, as if to answer the question, the cat spoke a short, whispering meow.

Barbara wondered whether she was feeling Catwoman's naked skin grow ice cold, or her own.

But nobody looked. Nobody heard.

"Come on, kitty, stay quiet," whispered Catwoman, whimpering a bit as she massaged Barbara's back and leaned down to lick her collarbone. The men interpreted the whine as a sensual moan of pleasure, and grunted in satisfaction as they stroked themselves eagerly. The whores, sitting next to their standing men, stroked and sucked at the bouquet of cocks Barbara had asked to see.

"Hell yeah," Marchetti grumbled as he stroked.

At this point, Barbara was in a full-on embrace with Catwoman. Their chests were pressed gently together, squishing their breasts flat when one of them didn't move into a position to show them off to Marchetti and his men. The two simulated moans and heavy foreplay to mask the whispers they shared in secret. Batman could have crashed through the roof and nobody would have looked away.

Again, the cat meowed. It was a short, silent whisper of a sound, to the cat's credit. "Here's the notebook, mommy," it seemed to say. Again, nobody heard.

"Come on, kitty... mmh..." Barbara whispered, gently moaning as she grew distracted by Catwoman's tongue, knowing nobody would be watching her lips.

"Yeah, come on, Kitty!" echoed Marchetti as Barbara's eyes widened in shock — he'd heard her that time.

"Easy, Kitten," Catwoman purred comfortingly as she ran her fingertips through Barbara's hair, her voice dripping with double meaning. They were both lucky it was so easily mistaken as passion rather than a desperate plea to the actual cat on the floor two paces from Marchetti's chair.

Barbara had come too far to get caught by her own ineptitude again, and doubled back up on the show. She was a bit shorter, so her lips focused on Catwoman's neck, shoulders, and ears. Her arms naturally wrapped around the taller woman's waist, and she was doing everything she could to avoid grabbing Catwoman's ass outright. She performed the touches and pantomimed the kisses just enough to hold the illusion, but the phantom of arousal she felt simmering between her thighs was becoming very real. She did everything she could to ignore it — including watching the men being masturbated and sucked to the sight of her. Even that gave a strange, horrible feeling she didn't understand yet.

Another soft, whispering meow trickled through the symphony of grunts and strokes. Marchetti seemed to want to turn his head for a moment, but changed his mind as he watched his toys play with each other.

"Wait... mmh... wait..." Barbara whispered into Catwoman's deep, heavy cleavage.

Catwoman, on the other hand, had no such sapphic inhibitions — and probably not any inhibitions. Barbara felt like a melting popsicle against the heat of her body, and Catwoman's tongue was shamelessly trying to lick up the oozing, dribbling sweetness. Her hands and lips explored without fear: Barbara's neck was wet in warm streaks from her tongue, and her skin simmered from Catwoman's touch. Fingertips raked at the base of Barbara's cowl, finding the spot that sent shivers down her spine which, until moments ago, nobody else on the planet knew about. Catwoman grabbed a handful of her ass and squeezed, and Barbara found her hand tracing down to Catwoman's soft thighs in an almost involuntary response.

"Go on now, Kitten," Catwoman moaned aloud to her spy, and to Barbara. "Go on now..." 

The cat turned in place, motioning to walk away. Then, it didn't.

"Go kitty... mmh... go kitty..." Barbara moaned as the men in the room groaned at the sight of feminine hands kneading feminine flesh.

"Fuck yeah, go Kitty!" Marchetti echoed. "Put this Bat-Chick on the table and eat her pussy for me, yeah?"

A chill shook Barbara to her core — she was already fighting through every wall in her mind to keep up what she was doing, and she absolutely did not want to be part of a live sex show. A vision of Catwoman's face buried between her legs as everyone watched burned her cheeks scarlet red.

"I'm the showrunner here," Catwoman deflected, turning away from Barbara for a moment to scowl at Marchetti. "You just sit there and rub your cannoli like a good boy."

The defensive retort made Barbara wonder how much Catwoman really wanted to take this. Was it just her own pride simmering at being shouted at like a master to his dog? Did she want to keep toying with Barbara until she couldn't hold back? Catwoman returned her gaze to lock with Barbara's and leaned their foreheads together, their lips just a moment away. Her hands returned to Barbara's body and explored. Marchetti and his men ignored the slight by their sexy guest and continued watching their show.

Suddenly, the cat at Mister Z's feet reached up a paw to the man's huge leg, and patted at his calf. His eyes squinted in the candlelight, like a gigantic bear waking from hibernation. Slowly, the massive, sleepy ogre looked down at his feet.

Ever so slightly, the big man's eyes opened.

Catwoman's eyes widened in fear.

"Cat!" Barbara whispered over the sounds of grunting and stroking. "We have to do som—mmh!" 

Catwoman tilted Barbara's chin up, and slid her tongue into her mouth.

From their encounters, Barbara was left with a number of sensations Catwoman had inflicted on her: a tender stomach where the cat burglar had kicked her from the top of a building, aching spots on her forearms where strikes were blocked. Then, there was the haunting taste of Catwoman's tongue. That hint of fruitiness — blackberry, she thought now — and the warmth that seemed to permeate her body. Warmth that seemed like it originated from her mouth; her lips and tongue were all a gently glowing oven with a fresh fruit pie inside. The sensation was much deeper as their tongues met for the second time.

Barbara's eyes spread wide. What is Catwoman doing... God, what am I doing?! she wondered as her mind raced. At the table, sounds of stroking hands and eager approval rang out, and the cat was overlooked yet again. She glanced at Marchetti's men — Mister Z was curiously considering the cat at his feet from behind his boss' chair, but everyone else was utterly transfixed on the show heating up before them. Barbara imagined Marchetti storming across the tabletop with his knife again, demanding explanation and threatening violence. Batman emerging from the shadows. Dad kicking down the door. Failure.

And slowly, Barbara let her eyes fold closed as she kissed Catwoman back.

As her lips tasted and sucked at Barbara's, Catwoman moaned into her mouth, the vibrations sending chills down her body that twitched her fingers. Barbara had never flirted with the idea of being physical with another woman, but she was way past flirting now. With her eyes closed, her tongue exploring, and her body pressed tight against Catwoman's, Barbara tried her best to imagine all the things she would do if the kiss was Dick Grayson's. Her hands reached out for his chest, and found only Catwoman's generous, supple breasts. She moaned quietly, hoping to hear Dick's deep, warm voice in response, but only Catwoman's mouth moaned back. Her lips reached out after Dick's as he pulled away and teased her, but it was Catwoman's lips that moved back in for the attack. Dizziness spun her head as she tried to force her imagination to overpower the reality.

"Mmh, don't stop," Catwoman moaned as she paused to give Barbara's lower lip a single decadent suck. "Let's give these boys... everything they want to see..." 

"Yeah, don't stop! I can-not-be- lieve this," Marchetti mumbled. "I got the two hottest girls in Gotham right here in my fucking club."

Their eyes fluttered open as they embraced each other, licking and nibbling at each others' mouths. Barbara found Marchetti kneeling in his chair, stroking himself like a chimpanzee. She glared at him under her eyelids, hoping her gaze would translate into something sexy instead of how much she utterly, desperately wanted to beat him into a coma. She stole a glance over his chair at Mister Z.

He held a small black cat scruffed by the neck, dangling in the air.

"Ey, boass," he mumbled in his deep Southshore accent. "Lookit dis cat." For the first time, Barbara could see the whites of his eyes, just barely, like a light through a cracked door. He looked as surprised as a half-asleep man could be.

"I know, Z, fuckin' look at her!" Marchetti said, staring at Catwoman, stroking himself faster.

Catwoman grabbed Barbara's face in her hands and kissed her passionately. Where before her mouth was gentle and calculated in the way she kissed, now she was hurried and fearful, unsure how much longer the show would hold up. Her tongue wrestled hungrily with Barbara's and they opened their mouths so everyone could see the fight.

"Nah, boass, I mean... lookit dis here cat," Mister Z mumbled, offering up the actual small black cat for him to see. It hung silently from his hand, resigned to its fate.

Marchetti ignored the huge man over his shoulder as he almost always did. "Yeah, Z! I'm lookin' at her! God damn!"

"We have to... mmn... have to hit them now... mmh," mumbled Barbara in between kisses and licks. "He won't stop..." 

"Need to do... ooh... something about the... aah... the big guy... ohh... and the guns..." Catwoman whispered back.

They did, as a matter of fact, need to do something about the big guy. Now that he was "awake", Mister Z was a statue come to life; he wouldn't be easy for the two of them to take down. He seemed even larger in motion — the cat dangling from his hand looked like a single brick being hoisted by a construction crane. Barbara wasn't entirely sure a punch or a kick would do anything to the man. Between Mister Z's massive physical presence and with the potential firefight erupting the moment she or Catwoman made a move, it wasn't an easy strike. Before Barbara could calculate a plan of attack between licks and heartbeats and moans, she found an object in Catwoman's hand as her eyes fluttered open.

"Boass, look—"

"—Yeah, boss ," Catwoman interrupted. "Look at this Cat." 

Barbara didn't realize what had happened until the liquid hit her skin, so her shocked gasp was genuine: Catwoman had grabbed a decanter of olive oil from the dinner table and was slowly pouring a long, golden stream of it all over both of their bodies. The room glowed with hoots and howls of approval as everyone's eyes were glued to them by the stickiness of the oil.

"What are... oh! What... ooh—"

"—Here, Kitten," Catwoman purred. "Lets get nice and slippery." 

The meaning behind Catwoman's tone wasn't lost on Barbara: this was how they'd 'do something about the big guy'. Earlier, Barbara recognized Mister Z from his previous life as a boxer. She'd glanced at one of his case files before; he was just as big back then, but much leaner. Given his much rounder size now, and his affliction, there was no way he had the speed to match Batgirl or Catwoman in strikes — it was more likely he was a grappler. He'd have a hard time with something too slippery to grasp.

Barbara reddened in humiliation as Marchetti and his goons cheered. Catwoman rubbed the slowly spilling oil all over Barbara's body. She felt her breasts slide out of Catwoman's grip like wet jello, and suppressed a gasp as she tried to ignore the spike of arousal that followed. Rivulets dripped down over her body like too much wet paint, and Catwoman scooped them back up, sculpting the runoff over Barbara's body until it oozed down again.

"Don't let your hands get too sticky. Need you ready with the throwing knife." Catwoman whispered in her ear as she embraced Barbara and kneaded olive oil into her ass and thighs, drawing a gasp out of her as her hands squeezed gently. Barbara hated how Marchetti's slavering gaze winced as his playthings oiled themselves up for his pleasure. She hated herself for noticing how gentle Catwoman's touch was.

"I hate you so much," she whispered into Catwoman's ear.

"Don't lie," Catwoman whispered as her fingers wandered to that tender spot just at the base of Barbara's cowl, drawing goosebumps and a soft moan. "You hate him. But you're loving this. " 

"Shut up!" Barbara hissed, shaking off the chills of Catwoman's hands. "I do no—" 

"—Now do me, Kitten!" Catwoman giggled playfully as she turned her back to Barbara and glanced coquettishly over her shoulder. She hesitated for a moment, to which Catwoman raised her eyebrows as if to say: "The notebook." 

Barbara stifled a scowl and poured olive oil over Catwoman's back before gently pressing her body into the wet mess between them.

Rivers of slick, golden oil spilled down over Barbara's naked body as she glared daggers at Anthony Marchetti. She squeezed into Catwoman, and her tender breasts squished wet, sticky sounds against the thief's back. Catwoman's ass pressed delicately against Barbara's groin. A small loop of empty space breathed in between them where their curves cushioned their bodies apart, and Marchetti seemed to leer hungrily through that peephole of soft, oily skin. He licked his lips with a focused gaze as he stroked himself.

Barbara decided to use this: "Bet you wish you were the meat in this sandwich, Marchetti," she teased.

Even Catwoman laughed at the quip this time. "I bet he does, Kitten," she said as she turned around, squishing her breasts into Barbara's and pouring more oil between them.

The wet sounds of oil-slick skin made a chorus with the wet sounds of stroking and moaning. Slowly, Barbara slinked to a crouch, using her chest to catch some of the oil spilling over Catwoman's stomach. Then, just as slowly, she slid her way back up Catwoman's body like a stripper teasing her pole, breasts and muscles slipping and squeezing along the way. The room howled with approval at her creativity as their breasts squished and slipped.

Just behind Marchetti, a confused cat dangled from an equally confused Mister Z's grasp. He stared at it through his squinty brow as though it was the first cat he'd ever seen in his life. But, unable to find a way to interrupt his boss, he cradled the cat in his arm and continued covering his manhood and the notebook with the other hand. The cat accepted its fate and sat quietly in Mister Z's arm.

Barbara felt Catwoman sigh in relief as she spread oil all over their bodies with her own. As Barbara's breasts slid back up Catwoman's soft hips and inner thighs, she caught the unmistakable scent of feminine arousal. She was familiar with her own scent, and she wondered curiously how Catwoman's deep fragrance wasn't much different than her own. There was no hiding that Catwoman was enjoying it. The danger, the stakes, and the grotesque group masturbation session at the dinner table didn't disturb Catwoman enough to turn her off. In fact, it did the opposite.

"You really are... ooh... into this, aren't you?" Barbara whispered into Catwoman's neck as she finished rubbing their bodies together.

Catwoman kicked her leg up and put a foot on the table, rubbing oil up over her thigh and all the way down to her ankle. "I'll enjoy it more once my cat is safe," she whispered, "but of course. You are, too." 

"Ah, fuck!" the man standing in front of the computer suddenly grunted.

Barbara looked toward him in shock, expecting a gun. She reached to her cowl in anticipation, ready to throw the Batarang, but found the bearded man's eyes winced shut — the pretty blonde whore with him had sucked him to orgasm. She crouched low next to the edge of the table and instead stroked the mess into her waiting mouth. The runoff painted a sticky slickness over her chin, like vanilla ice cream. She giggled at him for it, and Barbara felt Catwoman purr in delight. A strange twist pinched Barbara’s gut, and she tried not to show it on her face. She'd only first seen this man a few minutes ago, and now she was watching him do something intimate and private. As his eyes met hers, Barbara remembered he was doing it to the sight of her, and her lip quivered involuntarily.

Marchetti ignored him as though it wasn't the first time something like that happened at the table. "Hey Cat, you missed a spot down there," he barked from his chair.

Barbara scowled, but Catwoman purred and smiled. "For once, I agree with the Big Guy," she said, pouring oil onto Barbara's thigh and spreading it dangerously close to her groin. In a flash, she grabbed Catwoman's wrist to push it away and prevent her from rubbing too close: "Don't," she whispered.

Catwoman smiled deviously and pulled Barbara's hand to her own inner thigh, guiding it closer to her sex. Barbara couldn't hide the aggression in her movements. "Play along," Catwoman whispered back. "It's okay." 

"Ey, eh... boass," Mister Z tried to interject.

Catwoman grabbed Barbara by the back of her head and pulled her in close, her tongue gently playing over her lips. Reluctantly, but less than before, Barbara mirrored the urgency. She moaned and took up the bottle of oil from Catwoman, pouring more of it between them.

Marchetti, entranced by the oily women at the foot of his table, would hear none of it. "Z, you're just dreaming or something," he explained to the big man. "Talk later." The big man seemed to consider what he'd been told as he looked at the cat cradled in his arm with his squinty mole-eyes.

"Let's just... nnh... take them down..." Barbara moaned quietly.

"Don't forget... aah... about the guns..." Catwoman whispered into Barbara's mouth.

"How many? Ooh..." Barbara whispered as she kissed Catwoman.

" Mmm... hold on... play along..." Catwoman whispered as she kissed Barbara back.

With that, Catwoman bent low and nibbled beneath one of Barbara's breasts, her fingertips trailing over them as she did. Barbara moaned loud and low as Catwoman licked circles around a nipple, and Catwoman moaned in turn, drawing the same response from everyone in the room. The bearded man who had been sucked clean by his whore collapsed into his chair, spent of his energies. Barbara wondered how many more men she'd have to watch spray semen all over womens' mouths at the sight of her.

In fact, all of Marchetti's whores had joined in to please his men while they watched the new, exclusive Kitty Cat show. One of the men kissed one of the whores on his right, while the one on his left kneeled in her seat with her ass up in the air and tended his hardness so he didn't have to. The man's eyes glared at Barbara as his girl sucked and stroked him.

"Aah!" cooed Barbara as she was sucked out of her thoughts. The sudden, sensual warmth of Catwoman's mouth on her nipple made Barbara grasp the table as her knees shook and she found herself sitting on its edge. Barbara grabbed at Catwoman's head as she realized what was happening.

"Ohgod!" moaned Barbara as she saw where Catwoman's hot, wet tongue was heading next. "Wait! Ooh!" 

But Catwoman's lips kissed their way slowly down Barbara's ribcage, like footsteps on a ladder climbing carefully downward. Catwoman planted an extra-soft kiss on her belly button as she slinked all the way down to her knees, her seductive green eyes glaring up at Barbara. Heat brimmed between her legs.

"Good," whispered Catwoman, the crowd cheering as her mouth kissed lower, drawing closer to the freshly-shaven, aching lips. She winked. "Keep playing along." 

But Barbara was doing more than playing along. She gripped the dinner table and hoped for some double-meaning behind the words — one that didn't end with her having a screaming orgasm in Catwoman's mouth.