The days after the Los Angeles fight blurred into a tense routine.
Elena spent most of her time recovering in her house—sleeping, eating, occasionally texting me flirty updates like "Feeling stronger. Miss your arms around me." I brought her groceries, mowed her lawn, played the helpful neighbor while my mind replayed the image of her nearly naked on national TV, glowing like a conqueror.
We hadn't crossed the line yet. Close—agonizingly close—but always interrupted by her world. Her powers. Her duty.
That changed on a quiet Sunday morning.
I was in the kitchen making coffee when my phone buzzed. A text from Elena.
Elena: Got a lead. Heading overseas tonight. Europe—some ancient artifact stirring up trouble. Could be gone a week.
My stomach dropped.
Me: Be safe. Call if you need anything.
A pause. Then a photo attachment.
I opened it and nearly dropped my mug.
It was her—in the catsuit. But not the battle-ready version. She stood in front of a full-length mirror in her bedroom, one hip cocked, hand on the zipper pulled low enough to expose the inner curves of her breasts. The leather clung to her like a lover's touch, outlining every inch of her voluptuous figure: the swell of her hips, the thickness of her thighs, the way the material stretched taut over her ass. Her mask was on, but pushed up like a headband, hair tumbling wild. Lips parted in a sultry pout. Eyes smoldering directly at the camera.
The caption: "For motivation. Think of me like this while I'm gone. x"
Heat flooded through me. I stared at the image for longer than I should have, memorizing every detail.
Me: Jesus, Elena. You're killing me.
Elena: Good. More where that came from if you behave.
She wasn't kidding.
Over the next few days, as she vanished into whatever shadowy mission called her, the photos kept coming. Irregular times—middle of the night, early morning—each one more teasing than the last.
First: A nude from behind, her back arched in the mirror, ass on full display, long hair draped over one shoulder. Purple energy faintly glowing along her spine like an invitation. Caption: "Wishing you were here to trace this."
Second: Front view, nude again, lounging on a hotel bed somewhere exotic (blurry background of old stone architecture). One arm strategically across her breasts, squeezing them together; the other hand low on her stomach, fingers disappearing between her thighs. Eyes half-lidded. Caption: "Touching myself thinking of you. Your turn?"
I responded in kind—late-night shots of me in bed, hard and aching, hand wrapped around myself. Her replies were fire: "God, yes. Can't wait to do that for you."
Third: In the catsuit again, this time mid-change. Zipper fully down, peeled open to her navel, breasts spilling free. One hand cupping herself, nipples peaked. Mask on fully now, adding that anonymous thrill. Caption: "Pre-fight ritual. Power me up from afar."
The sexual tension was unbearable. We traded messages between her updates—quick check-ins like "Safe so far. Miss your voice."—but the images turned it into something raw, electric. I jerked off to them more times than I'd admit, always imagining the real thing.
Then the news broke.
It started with alerts pinging my phone around day five.
BREAKING: Massive supernatural disturbance in Rome. Ancient Colosseum site of bizarre energy surge. Reports of a demonic entity manifesting—horns, wings, the works. Casualties mounting.
Live feeds flooded the internet. The entity was huge—fifteen feet of twisted muscle and shadow, roaring Latin curses as it hurled chunks of historic stone at fleeing crowds. Fire rained from its claws. Chaos.
Then she appeared.
Thick Chick streaked in from the sky like a violet meteor, slamming into the demon mid-roar. The impact cracked the arena floor. She was in a new suit—sleeker, reinforced with glowing purple seams that pulsed with her energy. Mask secure. Hair whipping like a banner.
The fight was glorious.
She moved like poetry in motion—super speed blurring her into a streak, strength crumpling the demon's armor with every punch. When it breathed hellfire, she flew straight through, emerging unscathed, aura flaring brighter. She lifted the beast overhead—muscles rippling under the tight leather—and hurled it into the ancient walls, bringing down a section in a cloud of dust.
The demon fought back hard—claws raking, shadows coiling like tentacles. At one point it pinned her, jaws snapping inches from her throat. But she roared back, purple lightning exploding from her body in a shockwave that shredded its wings.
One final, epic strike: She flew high, gathered energy until she shone like a second sun, then dove fist-first through its chest. The entity screamed, dissolving into black mist that evaporated in the Roman sun.
Victory.
The crowd erupted. Cameras captured her hovering above the rubble—chest heaving, suit torn in strategic places (a slash across her thigh, another exposing the side of one breast), body glistening with sweat and power. She looked invincible. Glorious. A modern goddess amid ancient ruins.
World leaders reacted fast.
The U.S. President held a press conference that afternoon, flanked by flags and secret service.
"We owe a debt of gratitude to the vigilante known as Thick Chick," he said, voice booming. "Her actions in Rome prevented an international catastrophe. On behalf of the American people—and the world—I thank her."
Then the feed cut to archived footage: A private meeting earlier, somehow leaked. The President shaking her hand in a secure room (how she got there so fast was anyone's guess). He pulled her into a half-hug, one hand lingering too long on the small of her back… then sliding lower, cupping her ass through the leather.
Thick Chick's expression—visible even behind the mask—shifted from polite to displeased in an instant. Eyes narrowing. She stepped away smoothly but firmly, hand brushing his aside. No words exchanged, but the message was clear: Don't.
The clip went viral. Debates raged online—sexism, heroism, boundaries. I watched it on loop, a mix of pride and jealousy twisting in my gut.
She texted me that night.
Elena: Saw the news? President's a handsy prick. Heading home soon. Exhausted but okay.
Me: You were amazing. Can't wait to see you.
Elena: Ditto. Dream of me. x
She arrived back two days later, deep into the night.
I was up late, scrolling through more footage of the Rome fight, when I heard the soft thud in her backyard. I rushed to the window.
Elena—still in the torn catsuit—stumbled toward her back door. Mask off, tucked in her belt. Hair matted with sweat and dust. She fumbled with her keys, got the door open… then collapsed right there on the threshold, body slumping like a puppet with cut strings.
I was over the fence in seconds, heart in my throat.
"Elena!"
She was breathing—shallow, ragged—but unresponsive. Eyes half-open, glassy with exhaustion. The fight, the travel, the constant power drain… it had finally caught up.
I scooped her up carefully—marveling at how light she felt despite her curves—and carried her inside. Kicked the door shut behind us. Her head lolled against my shoulder, scent of leather and ozone filling my senses.
Upstairs to her bedroom. I laid her on the king-sized bed gently, propping pillows under her head. She murmured something incoherent, then went still again.
She needed care.
First: Water. I found a glass in the kitchen, brought it up, and trickled some past her lips. She swallowed reflexively, a good sign.
Then: Clean her up. She was caked in grime from the fight—dust, dried blood (not hers, I hoped), sweat. The suit was ruined anyway—torn and singed.
Undressing her felt intimate. Forbidden.
I started with the boots—thigh-high, laced tight. Unzipped them slowly, peeling them off to reveal smooth, toned legs. Her feet were small, arches high, toes painted black.
Next: The suit itself. It zipped from neck to crotch. I tugged the zipper down carefully, exposing inch after inch of bronze skin. No bra underneath—just her full, perfect breasts spilling free as the leather parted. Nipples soft in repose. I swallowed hard, focusing on the task.
Lifted her arms gently to slide the sleeves off. Peeled the suit down her hips—god, those hips—revealing she wore nothing beneath there either. The curve of her ass, the neat strip of dark hair between her thighs… it was all there, vulnerable and stunning.
By the time I got the suit fully off, my hands were shaking. Not from effort—from restraint. She was naked now, laid out like a masterpiece, body still faintly warm with residual power.
I covered her with a sheet for a moment, then ran a bath in the en-suite. Warm water, bubbles from some fancy soap on the shelf. Jasmine-scented, like her.
Carrying her to the tub was easier—she stirred slightly, mumbling my name.
"Alex…?"
"Shh. I've got you."
I lowered her into the water carefully. She sighed as it enveloped her, eyes fluttering but not fully opening. I grabbed a soft cloth, dipped it, and started washing her—gentle strokes over her arms, shoulders, neck. Down her back, tracing the curve of her spine.
When I reached her breasts, the tension spiked. The cloth glided over them, nipples hardening under the touch. She arched faintly, a soft moan escaping. My cock throbbed in my pants, but I kept going—professional, almost. Washed her stomach, her hips, between her thighs. Careful there—sliding the cloth along her folds, feeling her warmth even through the fabric.
She shifted, legs parting slightly. Another murmur: "Feels good…"
I rinsed her hair next, massaging shampoo into the long strands. Conditioner. The whole ritual was erotic torture—her body responding to my touch, but her exhaustion keeping it innocent. Barely.
Finally, I lifted her out, dried her with a fluffy towel—patting every curve, every hidden place. Dressed her in loose pajamas from her drawer (silk shorts and tank that did nothing to hide her figure).
Tucked her into bed.
She grabbed my hand as I pulled away, eyes cracking open.
"Stay," she whispered.
I did.
Curled behind her, spooning her warmth. No sex—not tonight. But the tension hummed between us like a live wire. Her ass pressed back against me, soft and inviting. My arm around her waist, hand resting just below her breast.
We slept like that—entwined, on the edge.
In the morning, she'd wake stronger.
And maybe, finally, we'd cross that line.
But for now, she rested.
And I watched over her.