The Birdcage

Friday, October 30. 9:30ish.

I say "9:30ish", but really I knew it was 9:23 pm, just like it was the last time I pushed back the gauntlet on my glove to check my watch. The TV above the bar said 9:27.

God –

David was such a flake.

I nursed the ice-water remainders in the tumbler on the bartop before me. It was the last of my third, which was really more than I liked to drink by myself. But I didn't have anything else to do while I waited. Beside, I was agitated, and I really needed to relax. I didn't want to waste the scene around me.

I turned away from the bar to look out over the darkened room. Captain America, Wolverine (claws retracted, thankfully), and someone who I think was supposed to be The Maxx were flirting with a pair of Wonder Women just a few feet away. About a half-dozen X-men, mostly with the new movie costumes, were lining up so Spiderman could get a group picture. There was another Spiderman holding hands with Black Cat (Mary Jane would be pissed!) over by the phones, and the Joker and Aquaman seemed to have struck up a friendly conversation on the other side of the bar.

Since it was the annual Comsplay-get together (Comics ... Cosplay ... Get it? All right, I know, but I didn't make it up), and tickets were expensive enough that a couple hundred of us together closed out the Gracchus room at Caesar's Palace, the costumes were really pretty good. I probably knew half of the people there – at least by their alts on the comsplay board – but I didn't recognize anyone. Most of the costumes had masks, and hell if even Joker's facepaint didn't make him impossible for me to recognize.

As much as I liked costumes, there was something about masks that made me uneasy – something about not being able to recognize someone else when they might recognize you. Call it a quirk, but my favorite time of year made me a wallflower. By myself, alone inside my costume, I was shy and bashful. Now if David had been there – just having that one other safe person to make introductions, to share jokes instead of to be the joke...

He wasn't answering his cellphone, either.

Damnit

.

I glanced up from my phone at the clack-clacking of high-heels on the wooden floor. Catwoman was walking up to the bar; she brushed by me and slid into a stool around the corner from mine. Of course, there were probably four or five Catwomen out in the crowd (thankfully, none of the Patience Phillips variety), but this one was the real deal, in my book. Her costume was great – a little interpretive, but without breaking canon.

Obviously she had the coiled up black bullwhip. Beneath arm-length gloves and thigh-high boots of soft black leather, she wore a purple catsuit – probably lycra, I think – and she filled it out beautifully. She wasn't the tall, lean, statuesque type, though her boots did give her an extra three or four inches, but she could have been a model in the 50's, back when reasonable men liked their women curvy. Let me just say that she was 'voluptuous'. But the suit looked like it was

made

to fit her – the spread of her shoulders, the volume of her ass and thighs were sculpted by the suit, but not squeezed. She had the matching purple cowl with cat ears, and long, wavy black hair flowing out the back.

She was black, with heavy-lidded eyes darkened by black makeup, and full lips covered with a deep, wet-looking red. Of course, I couldn't recognize her.

I realized I was staring when I saw her staring back at me. But she was smiling, looking me over. Costume parties tend to encourage an appreciative stare.

I was thinking over the last month's posts to remember if anyone had said they were coming as Catwoman, to see if I could put a screen name to a face, when she spoke. "Buy a girrl a drink, Boy Wonder?" Her voice was surprisingly deep, yet still very feminine. She was playing up her part and purring her 'r's.

After what was probably an awkward pause, I came to life and nodded. "Yeah. Sure." I beckoned to a bartender.

He approached our corner of the bar and smiled. A Las Vegas bartender doubtlessly saw many strange things, but he seemed amused by the league of superheroes. "What will it be?"

I glanced over to Catwoman, who wanted a, "White Rrrussian." I decided then that her voice was incredibly sexy. Her words weren't slow, but they were deliberately enunciated – clearly formed in her luscious mouth.

"Another Jack and Coke for me."

"Right." It only took him a few moments to produce the drinks, but that was enough time for Catwoman and I to make eye contact again. My eyes hurriedly flicked away, but when I glanced back, hers hadn't. After two or three seconds, we were in a staring match, and after ten, I was grinning stupidly. Her smile was somewhat more feral – a little more competitive. She intended to win. I focused on one eye, than another, willing myself not to slip down to her lips. She was cheating, moistening them with the tip of her pink tongue. I blinked away as the bartender slapped down his little square napkins and placed the drinks. "A White Russian – err, Cream for the Catwoman; Jack and Coke – so, Birdseed... for Robin. Twelve dollars."

I fished my Visa out of the yellow pocket on my utility belt and handed it over to the bartender, who disappeared around the island.

"So

that's

what you keep in your utility belt." Catwoman smirked at me, probably still enjoying her victory. "I always wondered. Do you mind if I take a look?" I shrugged and slid off the stool, but she remained seated and beckoned with a crooked finger. I noticed that the fingertips of her gloves were fitted with hard, sharpened points, and thought to commend her on the detail.

The bartender came back with the receipt just as I made it around the corner, so while I signed the bill and worked out the tip, Catwoman poked through my belt.

"It's good quality." She opened and closed the magnetic snaps, rifled through the stash in each, ran her claws along the seams. "Good fit. Did you make it yourself?"

"I put the belt together, but not the suit." I nodded my thanks to the bartender.

"It's good. Sit herrre." She slid the bullwhip off the barstool next to her and stroked the cushion with her claws. While I sat, she eyed me and took a long sip from her sweaty tumbler.

"Thanks."

"No, thank you. I don't have one of your spiffy belts. You don't want to know

where

I have to keep my card."

"Maybe I do..."

"Ah!" She raised a hand to her chest in mock affront while her eyes twinkled. "What kind of manners has Bats been teaching you? Well, I suppose they're not

that

bad, if you'll buy a drink for a thirsty lady."

I cleared my throat, filled my voice with my most earnest Dick Grayson impersonation. "I must, confess, Catwoman, that my motives were not entirely chivalrous. You see, as long as you're here drinking with me, I know you're not out burgling the priceless funerary statue of Bast, or a fleet of black Catillacs. I'm fighting crime."

"Not very well, Boy Wonder. I've already stolen something from you." She flashed a wicked grin, and produced my driver's license.

"Hey..." It was a weak protest on my part. My license had been in the same belt pocket as my credit cards. They were still in place. Right? I felt to be sure.

"Don't worry, Dick Grrrayson. Your secret identity is safe with me. Though I should probably write down the address for Wayne Manor."

I took a quick drink to stifle my anxiety over her handling the ID. I told myself to calm down. It was probably harmless enough. "Since you know my identity now, what's yours?"

"Oh – but didn't Bats tell you? I'm Selina Kyle." She flashed me a wide smile, and her eyes scanned over my license. "Not so much a 'Boy' Wonder, I see. A Young Man Wonder. A Legal Wonder. But you still look cute in tights." She pinched a fold in the green spandex on my hip and let it snap back. "Do you have to shave to wear these?"

"No... I already waxed for swim training."

"Ahh... how delightful. I'd love to see that."

"Swim training?"

"No... your bare legs."

I blinked the conversation into a dead end before I thought of a reply. We both sipped our drinks for a minute before she began again.

"So why are you sitting here, Rrrobin, instead of out mingling with the Teen Titans?"

"Actually, I'm waiting for Batman."

She smirked.

"He should have been here a few hours ago. I don't know what's keeping him." I had forgotten about David.

"You've tried the batphone, I suppose?"

"No answer. The worst part of it all is that he reserved our room for tonight. Being Halloween in Las Vegas, I'm probably going to have to drive all the way to State Line to find an another vacancy."

"For what it's worth, I've always found Batman to be downright unrrreliable."

"What about you? Are you waiting for Batman, too?"

"Bat

girl

, actually. But she seems to have found something more interesting under Supergirl's skirt. Out of the closet and into the cave, you know."

"So I heard."

"So that puts me back out on the hunt again."

"I see."

She placed a gloved hand on my arm, on the bare skin above my elbow. "And, lucky for me, I've found an unsuspecting little birdy."

God!

She had been teasing me ever since she arrived at the bar, but I was uncomfortably aroused now. Tights and Underoos aren't the most freeing environment. Or the most discrete.

"You, know, Dick – I hope you don't mind if I call you 'Dick'." She had caught my hand with her other, and was lightly stroking the soft flesh inside my elbow with the tips of her claws. "I once asked myself, 'Do cats eat bats? Or do bats eat cats?' Of course, that's a silly question, since the answer is clearly that cats eat bats. After all, bats are simply rats with wings. But I'm asking myself tonight why I'd want to eat a dirty little rat when I could just have a delicious little birdy instead? What do you think?"

Gaahhh

, is what I thought, while I watched her tongue slicker over bright white teeth, and I tried to shift my hips to give my erection some breathing room. It was going to be a real embarrassment if I moved out from beneath the bar now. Fortunately, my brain still had some blood, and it produced a comprehensible response. "...Sounds like a dilemma."

"Oh, no. Not at all. The answer is very easy. You see, Rrrobin – I can solve both of our problems. Since Batman has abandoned you to my evil clutches, I'll just drag you back home with me. You'll have a birdcage for the night, and I'll have something to play with. Isn't it just perrrfect?"

I had to admit that it was, but she continued. "Give me your hands."

I held them out to her, and in one quick move she pulled a ziptie from the top of her boot and flicked it around my gloved wrists, expertly threading it and pulling it just tight enough to keep it in place, but clearly loose enough that I could wriggle a hand free if I wished. Another followed around my thumbs. "Of course, since Rrrobin is good and upright, he couldn't just saunter back to Catwoman's lair. He has to be compelled. So you just give me a wink while the Justice League here isn't looking, and we can do this properly."

I winked.

At that she dipped again into the top of her boot and produced a purple silk scarf, which she wrapped around my mouth as a gag. While she tied it in place, she murmured in my ear. "I came prepared to abduct Batgirl, but this will do for the tenderer half of the Dynamic Duo, too."

The bartender was already watching, but once we stood away from the bar, everyone else began to take notice. Spiderman appeared so he could chortle at my dilemma and take pictures. Catwoman played it up, first throwing the coils over her whip over my neck, then tossing it back as though she would strike. I did my best to show fear in my eyes, but I was loving it.

We left the Gracchus room with a send-off, including applause and whistles from a couple of the other Catwomen, the Joker, and a Riddler. My Selina pushed me ahead of her like a proper war trophy, while she proudly strutted behind.

But once we'd left the Comsplay crowd behind, she kept me ahead of her, guiding me with nudges from her re-coiled whip. I glanced back questioningly, but she continued, navigating down the hall toward the floor of the casino. I was starting to get a little nervous. It was one thing to play like this in front of friends, even if you didn't recognize them; it was quite another in front of strangers. I was embarrassed enough when I came into the casino a few hours back, skirting the periphery of the floor to meet the fewest eyes.

I stopped at the edge of the gaming floor. We were at the beginning of the long walkway that ran by the pits, by the 'Win the Corvette' slots, through the busiest part of the floor. Her hand rested between my shoulder blades, and I glanced back my objection – this time I didn't have to fake the fear. She was grinning wickedly. "Move it, Rrrobin." She gave me a little push, and I stumbled out on the gaming floor.

God!

I was lucky my erection had faded –embarrassment was better than cold water for that. The Robin suit, thick as the green tights were, felt awfully revealing. I suppose Superman wouldn't have it any better – he's just as bright, just as clingy, and has an even dopier cape, but he's

Superman

. Women swoon for Superman. They snicker at Robin. I was pretty sure they were snickering now.

I was still hesitating, leaning back against her, setting my heels and stumbling forward ahead of her steady advance. There were hundreds of eyes on us; the casino staff were the worst. Then I heard her deep voice just behind my ear. It wasn't a whisper, but it was low enough to reach only me. "If it's any relief, everyone is staring at

me

. You're only my accessory. Just struggle a little, put up a fight, and you won't feel so vulnerable. And if that doesn't help, just remember that

these

are waiting for you on the other side." Her breasts pressed against my back. Her nipples were hard enough to be felt through my cape, sliding beneath my shoulder blades, and for a minute I was in danger of filling out my tights again.

She nudged me again with the butt of her whip, and I marched.

*

She was right.

Even for Vegas – even on Halloween weekend, with the Fetishists filling up the Stardust for their Fantasy Ball – everyone stared. But their eyes only glanced over me, then fixed a few feet behind. I clenched my jaw, set my shoulders, and shrugged off the next nudge of her whip; she responded with a hiss and a firm shove to my back. When I set my heels again, it was defiance – she nestled right up behind me, whispered "Gooood," in my ear, and dead-kneed me. When I ducked the coils of her whip, she swatted with her claws; one way or the other, I usually caught a light smack. Once I lunged forward, as if to break away. But the pits were crowded, and I really didn't want to escape. Her fingers just snagged the back of my arm, and the coils of her whip went around my neck. There were laughs and hoots as she force-marched me past the Corvette.

I didn't realize that we weren't heading for the elevators until we were almost at the front entrance. She caught my elbow and pulled me out the door.

An October night in Vegas is crisp. My first deep breath chilled my throat and set what light arm-hair I had on end. The cold air was enough to encourage me to be brisk, but she had a better plan to urge me on.

The first time her whip cracked, about two feet to my left, I just about jumped out of skin. I stopped dead still, then turned to look back; she had that same wicked grin again when she motioned forward with her head. The whip cracked again to my right, and I hopped to it.

We drew a crowd on Las Vegas Boulevard. She loved it. She hissed at me, hissed at the crowd, swished her ass as surely as if it had a tail, and cracked her whip whenever she had enough room. A group of tourists each filming the Bellagio's water show turned as we walked by to record us instead. (Well, her, really, just like she said. It wasn't my perky nipples poking through my costume that caught their eye.) She shoved me forward again, clawed the space around her clear, and showed us all – especially me – just how good she was with the whip. The air popped and cracked around my head and shoulders. Several times I felt the wind of it past my ear; each time I flinched or tried to dodge out of the way, she laughed. The tourists applauded while I grimaced. She must have stopped, because suddenly I did too, yanked back to her by a tug on my cape.

She held me tightly – one arm and the whip wrapped around my waist – and I realized that she was stronger than I had given her credit for. Not as strong as me, of course. Well, probably not.... Her arm didn't budge at my faux struggles, and those thighs – there was enough power in those flanks to crack walnuts. Or a head. In her heels, and with her cowl ears and that mane of black hair, she had half an inch on me. Caught in that hug, I felt overpowered.

Flashes were going off all around us. She grabbed my chin between a few clawed fingers and angled my cheek up and toward her. To the audible satisfaction of the crowd, she slathered her tongue up the side my face, from the top of my neck to the corner of my eye, and again up my jawline to my ear, which she nuzzled. "Struggle a little more, Rrrobin, or they might think you like it!"

I do like it! Through the gag, it came out more as, "I-oo ryk-ih!"

She laughed and pushed me away, sending me skipping again with a crack of the whip.

*

It's a long walk from Caesar's Palace to the Luxor, which is where we eventually arrived. Technically it's about a block and a half, but a Las Vegas block has got to be at least a mile. I jogged most of the way, stumbling ahead of her, ducking from the occasional crack of the whip. Her lashes never struck, but I never managed not to jump when I heard it snap. She strode behind me at a clipped, determined pace, but we stopped frequently, whenever enough people wanted to take a picture commemorating my capture, or when she just wanted to maintain her arousal.

Actually, she did a good job of keeping us both excited over the 45 minutes or so the walk took. The tips of her claws on the back of my neck, her hot breath on my cheek, a brush of her nipples against my arm, a flick of her tongue over my lips – any of these were enough to keep me unbalanced, on the hazy boundary between public embarrassment and the constant glowing, heart-beating hope that she would take the scene further. But her low, sultry voice and the libidinous threats it uttered were what really threatened to stretch the crotch in my costume and bring the unwelcome attention.

There was this one time, on the corner between New York, New York and Excalibur, when she started dry-humping the back of my leg while moaning "Rrrobin..." again and again in my ear... Somewhere there is a frat-boy with about 40 great shots of what she did to me. I want them back.

For her part, I realized two things seemed to turn her on – her ability to arouse me (which was half of a dangerous positive feedback loop), and her ability to control me. Whether she did the ordering with the whip, grabbing hands, or with sternly spoken commands, my obedience made her more likely to follow with an ear nibble or a whispered idea of what new dirty thing she might do to me, the details of which she was just as likely not to share – it was enough that I knew that she had an idea. But it wasn't enough that I simply comply – she wanted a stallion, not a gelding – so the more I pretended to struggle or, towards the end, did struggle, the more her wicked smile widened.

*

At last we were at the Luxor, inside and heading along the outside of the gaming floor, directly for the elevator bank. By this time, I didn't even notice the half-dozen other people waiting for a lift with us; I was happy to see her re-coiling her whip.