Chapter 3 - The Stage

Tony waved a hand toward the chair at Catwoman's side where a thin man with a heavy beard sat. He pulled a suitcase from beneath the table, and opened it to reveal an embedded laptop. His lithe fingers typed quickly, and a plain, functional banking portal appeared on the screen.

"You'll never get away with this" hovered at the top of Barbara's throat, right next to "You're disgusting" and "You're all going to prison". But Barbara just couldn't summon the words — the shame of being in the room was all too real. As this small, scared, disgusted version of Batgirl, she knew she wouldn't be taken seriously: she was just a naked girl in a Bat mask. She squinted away tears of frustration and swallowed a knot.

"Verify the amount and your offshore account information, Miss, uh... Cat?" the bearded man asked as he offered the screen to her, taking a long look at her body as he did.

Catwoman glanced at the screen for a long while and pushed it away with disinterest. "Looks fine," she said, smiling seductively at Tony and ignoring his digital bagman. "You know the value of a professional when you see one, Big Guy." Catwoman squeezed her cleavage with her arms to emphasize her point.

Tony casually straightened his slick black hair and seemed to smile at his good business investment. He nodded to his associate, who spoke: "The wire transaction is pending, sir," he explained to his boss. "Fifteen minutes when you give the word."

From her training, Barbara knew Criminals in Gotham usually liked to work in two mediums: completely untraceable transactions such as cash, and completely traceable transactions such as wire transfers. They worked in the former with people they trusted, and in the latter with people they didn't. After all, who in their right mind would show up with a bag of money to make a deal with a thief?

While money moving through banks would eventually draw questions, most big time gangsters had enough power or lawyers to make those questions disappear — or they owned the banks. Now that her eyes had adjusted to the light, Barbara studied Tony's face curiously. Whoever he was, he was cautious. He'd made the extra insurance of a sort of digital dead man's switch; if he didn't make a confirmation with his bank somehow after the initial transmit, the transaction would fail. This way Catwoman couldn't get the money if she just murdered him outright.

"Now, what do you call this poor little thing?" Tony asked, suddenly remembering that the small, naked, red-haired woman by the door existed. Barbara shriveled as his gaze turned to her body and studied it, carving off another chunk of steak to amuse himself while he did.

"Well, I call her 'Kitten'," Catwoman said, "but that's my name for her." Catwoman paused for effect, making sure Barbara knew the name she'd used against Catwoman on the rooftop was her weapon, now. Then, Catwoman finished her introduction:

"This one calls herself The Batgirl."

Tony instantly froze. He stopped chewing and locked eyes with Barbara, taking a moment to reconsider her: strong build, Bat mask, red hair, arms covering her body in pathetic shame. He chuckled at what he saw, and kept chewing. Barbara felt the redness flush over her, felt herself shrink under the laughter.

"The fuck you say," he mumbled through his steak.

"I do," Catwoman purred.

He chewed and chewed, shaking his head and chuckling for a long while, even looking up to the big man next to him to try to get him to laugh along. The man squinted and chuckled, just once. Tony poked his fork in Catwoman's direction, and shot her a you-almost-got-me sort of glance. Catwoman peeked around the side of her chair and rolled her eyes at Barbara.

Eventually, Tony stopped laughing, but he enjoyed the chuckling chorus for a while. At one moment, the light seemed to hit his face in just a certain way, and Barbara's eyes sparkled with devilish joy.

As a kid, Barbara excelled at memory games. Given that her memory was photographic, most games and puzzles felt like a light stroll to her. She could solve Rubik's Cubes blindfolded at age six. She never lost a game of Battleship against her dad. One of her favorite board games was Guess Who, a game where the goal was to describe characters by their facial features to narrow down which one your opponent had secretly picked. Dad always said it was a lot like a police lineup. Barbara never forgot a face; she never lost a game.

"Anthony Marchetti," Barbara said confidently.

The man froze again, and this time the room fell utterly still and silent. Barbara clenched at her body as he stared, ignoring the shame she felt from his gaze.

One of the ways Batman loved to scare his perps was to narrate their lives. He would study their case files, memorizing each fact about them so that when he finally cornered them, he could list their names, birthdates, and every police-recorded incident they'd ever been arrested for, right down to minor infractions and misdemeanors. Bruce explained it was as if that way, Batman was omnipotent. He knew almost everything about someone just by looking at them. Everyone knew that about Batman, and they knew those who worked with him had the same strange ability.

Barbara had become very good at it.

"Anthony Marchetti," Barbara restarted, "A.K.A. 'Little Italy' Marchetti of the Guzzo crime family of Gotham. Born February seventeenth, nineteen eighty-six. Suspected on multiple counts of murder, extortion, racketeering, and sex trafficking. That definitely explains the sex club. Misdiagnosed with achondroplasia at a young age. Earned the nickname for his Sicilian heritage and unusually small stature."

Marchetti sat completely still in his chair, a mouthful of steak tucked into his cheek like a chipmunk. His eyes turned nervously to Catwoman.

Barbara continued, turning to look at the larger man: "Jimmy 'Mister Z' McCallahan, A.K.A. one-time Gotham Boxing Association heavyweight champion 'Sandman McCallahan'. Known for accidentally killing Morris 'The Nailer' Taylor in the ring during a prize fight. Born August second, nineteen seventy-eight. Suffers from a rare case of semi-narcolepsy that makes him half asleep at all tim—"

"—One of the fuckin' Batman's little cult members is your fuckin' sidekick?!"

In a flash, Tony drew the bloody knife, pointed it at Catwoman, and spit steak onto his plate. He hopped atop the dinner table and stormed across its surface, his face twisted in utter, horrid rage.

Barbara balked. "I'm not Catwoman's sidek—"

Marchetti ignored her: "—You brought Batman's little weird-ass cultist bitch into my motherfuckin' club?!" he screamed as he kicked an empty wine glass across the room, shattering it against the far wall. "Are you fuckin' insane?!"

Catwoman padded the air with her hands. "Now now, Tony, let's mind our tempers. Batgirl's here to play!"

"The fuck she is!" Tony said nervously, suddenly realizing a horrifying fact. "Oh, shit! Shit! This means the Bat's on his way here! No way I'm getting all my bones smashed apart by that... thing just because you tricked her into coming here!"

The room seemed to grow small, hot, and tense. Everyone was at least as nervous as Marchetti. Catwoman had no escape from her chair at the foot of the table, and Marchetti was looming over her with a bloody knife — nobody got away clean from a knife fight, even when the attacker was less than five feet tall. A few of the other gangsters in the room had guns tucked away under the table, and they drew them now, looking at the shadows for the phantom Bat-demon to appear. Marchetti gestured wildy with the knife as he ranted, and Barbara saw the malice in his body language. Marchetti would jump into Catwoman's chair and stab her to death while everyone watched. Then they'd remember Barbara was there, too.

But what actually happened was as soothing as a ladle of water on a hot sauna stone.

Catwoman stood from her dining chair, and for the first time, Barbara saw her for what she truly was. For one, she was completely nude save for her mask, of course: her heavy breasts spilled out from behind her arms, swaying as she rose from her seat. More importantly, she was undeniably sexy, but Barbara immediately noticed this came from more than just her nakedness. She looked up at Tony with a demure, theatrical pout, cocked a hip, and made a dismissive gesture, leaving all of her curves on display as she posed. Then, in a flash, she twirled away, denying him the view of her breasts and offering a glance at her ass instead, like a pinup model that was too bratty to hold still and pose for the camera. Her backside creased neatly as she crossed her arms and pouted.

"Oh, Tony. You're so paranoid!" Catwoman grumbled, ignoring the small, threatening man. "The Bat's not coming for you."

Marchetti stared down at her from his perch atop the dinner table — Catwoman was easily over a head taller than the small man on more even ground — but his body language instantly softened. His grip on the knife eased, and his lungs sighed out all their air as his eyes studied Catwoman's body movements like a hypnotized serpent before a snakecharmer.

"Woah," Barbara whispered.

"Yeah!? What makes you so sure?" Marchetti asked as he gestured with the knife, unaware that he was completely under her control.

Barbara tried to keep her eyes away from Catwoman, but even she couldn't; all the room's eyes were fixed on The Gotham Alley Cat. The sensuality in her movement was so subtle yet so well rehearsed that no one would know what she was doing unless they looked beyond her skin. It was a stage-ready, perfectly-rehearsed routine: deliver a line; make a perfectly sexy, teasing pose; then, pull away, and leave them all aching for more. Everyone was completely distracted — if she wanted to, Catwoman could steal a gun and fire enough times to kill everyone twice before they knew what hit them.

"Well, you're a legit businessman, aren't you?" she said, posing delicately again, instantly compelling attention. "Besides, I took down her other backup. And at an explosively high cost to me, by the way. What's more, she hasn't told anyone else she's here. She's on a personal gig. Solo."

As if released from a trance, or held more tightly in one, Marchetti relaxed even more. "I don't trust her," he grumbled, still pointing with the knife, "and I don't trust you if you think you can pull off... whatever you're pulling."

"You worry too much, Big Guy," Catwoman purred as she strolled around the chair, out of Marchetti's reach. "Is this the face of a girl who wants to get you in trouble?" She squeezed her breasts together with her elbows and hung them over the chair's dark wooden seatback, showing them proudly to Tony as she rested her chin across the bridge of her fingers. Marchetti's eyes dipped to look. He cracked a smile, and in the distracted moment Barbara spotted a half-dozen openings where Catwoman could have stolen the knife and gutted him with it.

Barbara's lips peeled slowly apart as her jaw sunk — this was Catwoman’s power.

It didn't hurt that Catwoman was unnaturally good to look at: she was at once as long and postured as a dancer, as thick at the bust and hips as a lingerie model, and as fit as any track and field olympian. She looked like a wrestler squeezed into a stripper's body, muscles and curves each struggling to be more noticeable. Her breasts were both round and heavy, and they swayed in a way that held even Barbara's eyes for a bit too long. Catwoman was undeniably beautiful, and Barbara conceded that the catsuit she wore was all her. If anything, it was the kryptonite that helped keep the utter sex appeal of her naked body from overpowering everyone around her.

"Now, like I said: Batgirl is here to play," Catwoman said as she stepped away from the table and sauntered heel-over-toe towards Barbara in a carefully practiced runway walk. "That was the deal, right?"

"Wait... what?" Barbara muttered quietly.

Barbara watched every eye in the room drop down to the jiggles of Catwoman's naked bottom as she strutted confidently away from them. Barbara found everything about Catwoman both horribly demeaning and undeniably powerful. Her body language was as effective as mind control. Rather than as a weakness or something belittling, Catwoman utterly owned the room with her femininity.

In short, she was everything the shy, blushing, blustering Barbara was not.

"You do want to play with me..." Catwoman said as she slid in behind Barbara, casually wrapping an arm around her waist, and squeezing a soft breast against her back. She purred into Barbara's ear:

"...Don't you, Kitten?"

Barbara couldn't answer. She squirmed uncomfortably at Catwoman's touch. Again, her body was so surprisingly warm next to hers. How was she not freezing cold? How could she be so comfortable with all the hungry eyes crawling over her skin?

She remembered the note Catwoman had left with the doorman: Play nice. A silent chill shook Barbara as she realized she was being blackmailed. Whatever "show" Catwoman had planned as secondary collateral for the sale of the notebook, Batgirl was about to become part of it. Given the place they were in, it wasn't hard to imagine what it could be about.

Oh, God, no... Barbara thought in despair.

"Ey, boass," a deep, booming voice suddenly said: Mister Z's voice. His eyes were squinted so tight by the fat shape of his face that it even looked like he was asleep. Nobody expected him to speak, but his voice filled the room like it was coming from stereo speakers.

"Yeah, Z," Marchetti replied without looking at him. "What is it?"

"She knows I's used ta be a boxer, boass," the big man said to his small boss. "I like dis goil."

McCallahan was a caricature of all things inner-city mobster: big and round and soft spoken with the most stereotypical South Gotham accent Barbara had ever heard. It seemed to give Tony pause for some reason, like he was some big strong monk from the gangster monastery mumbling ancient wiseguy wisdoms.

Tony smiled, and the knife finally settled at his side. He pointed with his finger instead of the bloody, serrated blade. "My man Z likes her. The Cat likes her. Fine," he conceded.

"There's my Big Guy," Catwoman said from over Barbara's shoulder. The room settled again: forks clinked against plates, wineglasses were sipped, voices mumbled. Most importantly, the guns were stowed beneath the table once again.

"But your ass is on the line, Kitty Cat," Tony said, pointing again before finally laying the knife down next to his plate as he returned to his seat. He vaulted down onto the raised platform that placed him high enough in the chair to eat comfortably. "You're lucky I like that big, round ass so much, you know that?"

"Keep sweet-talking me like that and maybe I'll sit it on your face, Big Guy," Catwoman purred.

Everyone in the room — Marchetti, his lazy dinner table decoration girls, Catwoman, even the big man — chuckled warmly. Tony seemed to squirm at the idea, unsure if he was frightened or aroused by Catwoman's proposition. So he laughed louder, and so did everyone else in return. Barbara stood still, red heat blooming over her cheeks, trying to recoil away from Catwoman's grasp.

"Roll with it, Kitten," she whispered as she slid around in front of Barbara. "Don't choke." Catwoman strolled back toward the table.

"Alright, we still got a deal," Tony said as the laughter died down. "But look at this girl, she's nervous as a fuckin' whore in church over here."

Barbara stifled the taste of bile in her throat. Catwoman paused at the foot of the table and posed with a hand on her hip. She glanced over her shoulder at Barbara, posing and smiling. "Tony's right, Kitten. You need to loosen up. Show us something nice to make us remember what dirty perverts we all are."

"As if I'd forget," Marchetti joked as he glared at Catwoman's ass, commanding the laughter in the room again. Catwoman turned her back to him, slapped a cheek of her buttocks, then lifted it up and let it fall so Marchetti could watch it jiggle. He winced and bit a knuckle at the sight, as did the other men at the table. Oohs and Aahs mingled with the groans of amazement and catcalls.

Barbara had never felt more like a piece of meat in her life just watching Catwoman. Marchetti and his pigs triggered a deep instinct inside her that made her feel small, weak, and afraid, and her nakedness multiplied it. But all of it seemed to bolster Catwoman. Basking in the attention her sexuality gave her was her metahuman power.

Any courage Barbara might have had left deflated like a hot air balloon crashing to the ground. She glanced at some of Marchetti's whores sitting bare-assed on their chairs at the dinner table. One of them looked at her and rolled her eyes. Barbara clutched even more tightly at her privates.

"Come on!" Marchetti groaned from his high chair. "Let's see what you're hiding there, sweetie." Everyone agreed.

Violence — that, Barbara was familiar with. She could outroll and outstrike almost anyone. She very much wanted to squash the feelings of shame inside her gut with a good ass-kicking. But again, she thought of Catwoman's note: "Play nice." With a fight off the table, Barbara wasn't as powerful as she thought. Batgirl was dangerous because she had surprise physicality on her side. When the physical acts suddenly shifted to 'act sexy' and 'be slutty', she had nothing to give.

"Come on!" Marchetti grumbled "Show us something! Hey! What do I win if I guess whether the carpets match the drapes?"

Barbara scowled as the room erupted into laughter again. She whipped her red hair over her shoulder as if trying to hide it from them. Heat boiled in her chest, and exploded.

"Don't know, Marchetti. What do I win if I guess whether all of these girls got here in a shipping container, barely know your name, and all speak Russian really well?" Barbara quipped.

A cold, nervous jeer seeped over the mahogany and leather. "Oh, very clever, little Bat," Tony replied. "I've heard it all before. These are good girls, they all applied here for the privilege to work with me. You know how hard it is to keep a high ratio of women to men at a club like this? I run a legit business where people can come to enjoy themselves. Check with the city. This is no Iceberg Lounge."

"No, you could never build a real club like Cobblepot," Barbara carried on. "Did you build a sex club instead because you ran out of luck picking up girls your size at the playground?"

"Hey, you watch your fuckin' mouth, Bat-Bitch!" Marchetti barked, banging a fist on the table. The long, bloody steak knife rattled against the plate, and the room simmered again.

"Easy, Tony," Catwoman said, gesturing for calm and making sure to arch her back to accentuate her chest as she did. "You didn't expect her to just roll over, did you? This is The Batgirl! She's a tough cookie. Fights just as good as me."

Barbara blushed at the lie, remembering how quickly Catwoman had taken her down. A sore spot on her stomach ached from when she was kicked from a rooftop by a high-heeled boot. The back of her head throbbed a bit from when she'd been floored in the space of a blink.

"Yeah? The fuck does that have to do with anything?" Marchetti growled.

"It means she's a fighter, Big Guy!" Catwoman purred, "And right now, she can't put her dukes up because... well, her hands are otherwise occupied at the moment."

A small chuckle lit the room. Catwoman continued, and Barbara awed again at the way she could work a room full of people.

"So now, she's fighting the only way she can — looks like her tongue is as sharp as her punch. But she doesn't get that there's nothing she can hurt here with either of those," she concluded, laying Barbara's entire emotional laundry out on the dinner table amongst the lipstick-stained port glasses and bloodied white plates.

"Yeah," Marchetti conceded again. "Just tell her to watch that smart fuckin' mouth."

Barbara's lips pursed, and Catwoman twisted the knife. "Know what your problem is, Kitten?" she asked, only looking at Barbara after the fact. "You're not scary."

"Funny," Barbara scowled, "weren't you the one running away from me earlier?"

"That seven foot tall bat-creature you work for? He's scary. Even when he doesn't try to be. And you, little girl crouching in a private dining room, embarrassed to show your body in the nude because you're so scared of what everyone will think?" Catwoman paused for effect:

"Not. Scary."

The room chuckled long and low, howling at Catwoman's private comedy roast of the scared little red-haired girl in the Bat mask. Barbara curled inward. Her insides even curled inward; all of her guts felt like they were absorbing into a vortex. She felt far too many eyes on her, and felt too much shame. Catwoman was right, and the sting was more painful than a whip crack or a kick or a claw. What would Dick think of her now? Would Bruce ever be able to look her in the eye again?

"Y-you aren't scary either," Barbara mumbled.

"No, Kitten, I'm not," Catwoman admitted, strutting proudly between Barbara's sight line with Marchetti and flaunting her body for all its worth. "I don't need to be."

She sauntered up to Barbara and pressed her breasts into her shoulders as she leered down at her — she had a height advantage even without the high-heeled boots. It wasn't until then that Barbara felt something ice cold on Catwoman's skin for the first time.

"You know what I am instead, kitten?" Catwoman asked. Her eyes darted down for a moment, and Barbara's reluctantly followed. Sandwiched between their bodies, Barbara saw what the cold sensation was:

An anodized titanium Batarang, neatly folded in half. The one Catwoman had caught on the Clarefield rooftop.

"Why would I waste time being scary?" she asked everyone over her shoulder as she stepped right into Batgirl's personal space and asserted her dominance.

Barbara looked back up into Catwoman's eyes: she winked. Distracting everyone, Catwoman reached behind her body and spread her buttocks apart, giving everyone a plain view of her feminine lips and the pinkness inside. Then, she answered her own question:

"I'm the hottest pussy in Gotham."

The room erupted into cheers as everyone watched Catwoman looming over Batgirl, their bodies pressed together, their lips just a breath away, Catwoman exposing her sex proudly to everyone at the dinner table. She released her spread cheeks, and they jiggled for everyone's pleasure.

"Let the Kitty Cat show begin!" Catwoman proclaimed, gazing seductively over her shoulder..

Marchetti smiled and nodded with satisfaction as his men cheered. "Fifteen minutes, Kitty," he said, nodding at the bearded man with the computer who quietly pressed a key on his console.

Catwoman was so much more than the case file about her. The men in the room wanted to have her. The women watched her in mixtures of excitement and jealousy. She was counting on all of it. Marchetti bit his knuckle and licked his lips, then howled at his good fortune as she shook her round, thick ass for everyone.

But Barbara — between suddenly being nominated from frightened girl to stripper and feeling the cold metal kiss of the hidden Batarang pressed against her skin — froze in terror.

"I... I'm..." she started to say.

"Shut up and take it," Catwoman whispered over the raucous crowd as she distracted them with her body. Barbara reached a hand up from her groin and slid the Batarang under the arm that was concealing her breasts. With Catwoman's body as a screen, nobody would see, but she was fearful of uncovering herself anyway.

"What... what the hell are you doing?" Barbara whispered.

"Why are you freezing up?" Catwoman hissed.

"I'm naked in a room full of mobsters!" Barbara hissed back.

"You're a sexy little package, Kitten!" she whispered. "Own it! And be ready with the throwing knife."

Barbara's brow quivered as her head swam from trying to understand Catwoman's motives. Did her instruction from the note to "Play nice" include whatever was happening right now?

"Know what you need, kitten?" Catwoman resumed, addressing the room as she turned her back to Barbara, satisfied at her secret delivery. "A lesson from Mama Cat about how pointless it is hiding what you've got."

Barbara didn't miss the double meaning. She squeezed the hidden Batarang tightly to her cold, frightened breast and started subtly working it towards her armpit while she had Catwoman's body as cover.

"Now we're speakin' my language, Mama Kitty!" urged Marchetti as the room cheered with him. His eyebrows bounced at Barbara and he grinned hungrily. The fear in Barbara's stomach swirled.

Catwoman reached a hand up and over her shoulder to caress Barbara's face. "What do you think, hmm?" she asked, obviously feeling Barbara manipulate the Batarang against her back. "You ready, Kitten?"

Barbara was lucky the emergency Batarangs were low-profile and foldable. Cowering behind Catwoman for cover, she released the blade from her armpit and made a blind, one-handed catch behind her back. Sighing quietly, she flipped her scarlet hair theatrically as an excuse to tuck the small weapon into her cowl. She smiled, confident that she'd got the job done, and clenched her fists, ready to make the surprise attack.

That can't just be what this whole thing was... can it? Barbara thought. She wants help taking these guys down? Catwoman would make a strange ally, but at least Barbara knew that she could kick ass in a fight. She relished the chance to break Marchetti's arms, but wondered how she'd manage against the ogre next to him. The hunger for a fight burned in her mouth anyway.

"Yeah. Alright," Barbara said, emphasizing the double-speak in her voice. "I'm ready."

"Great! Let's get started!"

Catwoman twirled a little pirouette to snuggle up behind Barbara leaving her exposed for a moment, and her hands whipped to cover her body again. Marchetti and his flock cheered momentarily, then groaned.

"Come on, move the hands!" he barked from his high chair. Everyone else urged her on in protest.

"Wait, no! What?" Barbara whined, covering herself. "I thought... you mean—"

"—Time to show off, Kitten!" Catwoman giggled.

She shoved Barbara forward, nudging her to the foot of the long dining table, further into the light where everyone could see. Barbara shriveled from the eyes of the dinner tribunal, and winced from the touch of Catwoman's naked body pressing against her from behind. She had expected to jump onto the table with Catwoman and fight her way to the front of it, cracking skulls and blinding eyes.

"Okay everybody," Catwoman purred. "Here's my Kitten!"

The room erupted in cheers.

In the spotlight at the foot of the dinner table in Anthony Marchetti's private dining room, Barbara felt like the lone bowling pin to a winning spare. The small, wiry Anthony Marchetti was the bowler at the top of the lane, staring down his target with a hungry leer. Behind her, Catwoman was the dark pit the bowling pins dropped into, the inevitable reality that she'd be set up again if she fell. There was no escape.

"Alright, Kitten," Catwoman moaned into Barbara's ear just loud enough for everyone to hear, "how about we turn on the headlights before we rev up the engine, hmm?"

Barbara's eyes narrowed, and her brow quivered. "What?"

She could feel Catwoman's eyes roll. "Show us your tits, Kitten."

Barbara felt herself blush bright red as everyone cheered for Catwoman, who seemed to drink in the attention like chilled champagne. All the eyes in the room were drinking Barbara in turn, consuming her, and yet she wouldn't simply dissolve away like she wished she could. Her lips quivered in cornered fear, and she chewed them shut so no one would see.

"I'm... uh..." Barbara stalled. Suddenly, she felt lips brushing against her ear.

"Do you want the notebook or not?" Catwoman warned in a barely audible whisper. Fear haunted Barbara's spine. Marchetti's mobsters cheered.

Catwoman rested her chin on Barbara's shoulder and pressed her warm body even tighter into Barbara's back, making her flinch uncomfortably. "Oh, fine. Let me teach you something sweetie," Catwoman said in a theatrically condescending tone. "You see, boys? Boys like it when you show them your tits. And, if that documentary I watched last night during my bath was telling the truth, lots of girls do, too."

Everyone laughed. Two of the whores at the table juggled their fake plastic breasts with their hands and kissed at Barbara, and the crowd cheered. Barbara felt equal parts stripper and a state fair horse, both a bawdy display object and an animal valued for its parts.

"Wait, I'm not... I don't..." Barbara said.

Catwoman pressed on with a smarmy schoolteacher's voice, snuggling the desperate, naked Barbara from behind as she lectured. "And I heard... that when you show boys your tits? It makes their..." she paused and looked around nervously, as though she might get in trouble if someone heard what she said next.

"...It makes their dicks get hard!" Catwoman said in a hush, her voice dripping with false modesty.

Marchetti doubled over with laughter at Catwoman's embarrassing farce, his own face growing as red as Barbara's. The massive Mister Z stood silently next to him, perhaps dreaming of something a fraction as funny.

"Now, when their..." Catwoman whispered again before continuing in her normal voice, "...when their dicks get all long and hard? That makes them think about having sex! You do know what that is, right?"

What did that mean? Sex with Marchetti's gangsters? If this was some test to see if Barbara would snap, Catwoman trying to coerce her into being a sex toy for a room of greasy gangsters was a sure way to do it. Barbara remembered the women on the main floor being used up like filthy dumpsters, bound and tied with ropes, slathered in slimy ooze erupting from red, ugly phalluses. She'd die before it got that far.

"V-very funny," Barbara whispered quietly as she shriveled away from the eyes locked onto her body.

"Sex is what makes boys like Marchetti here feel like they're the ones in control," Catwoman purred. "But we're the ones who are running the show here, aren't we?" Barbara's eyes froze at that, searching for a hidden meaning.

Catwoman carried on before she could give it much thought. "So, let's go, Kitten!" she said. "Headlights on!" Gentle, velvety fingertips caressed the forearm Barbara clutched across her breasts. Catwoman's hot breath tickled her ear.

A memory flashed to life: a girl named Connie Xu who Barbara met in senior year phys ed class. Connie had forgotten to wear her bra to the gym one day. Everyone laughed at that poor girl, her ill-fitting New Gotham High tanktop leaving nothing about her puffy nipples and wobbly breasts to the imagination. Barbara had saved her that day, taking her back to the locker room and lending her a bra, giving her a cheer-up speech about being tough. They both laughed about it, and stayed friends after. "You saved my life out there," Connie had said.

Nobody was here to save Barbara.

"Watch, Kitten. I'll show you," Catwoman said as she embraced Barbara tightly from behind, squeezing the forearm holding her breasts. "See, boys like to be teased. They're all boneheads that way, really. They like to ache and squirm. And it just so happens? We have the tools to make them do just that."

Catwoman's hand pulled on Barbara's arm ever so slightly.

"They want to see all of you, but you're not going to give it to them the way they want," Catwoman continued. "You're going to do it the way you want. Nice and slow..."

Barbara felt her arm get pulled even higher. The undersides of her breasts started to swell beneath, like droplets on a cold glass growing heavier, fuller. Drawn down by their own weight. Barbara breathed in fast, nervous sighs. "W-wait," she said meekly.

"That's it," Catwoman urged, the hunger in her own voice becoming apparent, "look at them! See how they're squirming? They couldn't look away even if they wanted to."

Catwoman was right: every eye was fixed on Barbara now. Marchetti had put aside his steak, and started chewing his lips instead. Another inch of her breasts slowly slid out from under her forearm, and a sudden cold sweat made her hands clammy.

"They're all yours, Kitten," Catwoman purred. "They can't help themselves now. Their poor, helpless little dicks are all getting hard just looking at you. Nice and slow."

Barbara's breasts slowly oozed out from under her forearm's hold. She felt a deep, utter embarrassment simmering in her neck as she realized the truth Catwoman had come to show on her 'Stage' here at the sex club — that even Barbara could use her body to control men if she wanted to. That Catwoman and Batgirl weren't so different. That at least Catwoman wasn't ashamed like she was.

Something more lurked there, just beneath the shame, as Barbara realized the truth — her own arousal. That only made it all worse.

"I bet Little Italy is sprouting a big, hard cannoli between his legs right now," Catwoman growled in a syrupy tone.

"God damn right. With some nice cream in the middle for you," Marchetti grumbled, loosening his belt. "Damn, look at the tits on this Bat-chick." The droplets grew fuller. Barbara's breasts squeezed lower. Marchetti's eyes grew wider. Barbara swallowed the hot, coppery saliva pooling under her tongue.

Suddenly, Catwoman's voice — not a theatrical voice, but what Barbara immediately recognized as her real, true voice — whispered a quiet secret into Barbara's ear. And it was an angry, vengeful secret:

"Anthony Marchetti stole the notebook from me," she hissed.