Go home and unwind in the shower

Susan stumbled into the Baxter Building just after 3 AM, her mind still reeling from her encounter with Ralph. She'd deactivated the perception filter before entering, restoring her appearance to that of Susan Storm-Richards rather than Suzanne, but the transformation felt hollow.

The penthouse was dark and silent. Reed was either asleep or, more likely, still working in his lab. She crept through the living area toward their bedroom, not bothering to check for him. Part of her hoped he was awake, that he would question where she'd been, **** a confrontation that would shatter this dangerous double life before it consumed her completely.

But no interruption came. No one questioned why the Invisible Woman was returning home in the small hours of the morning, smelling of **** and cigarette smoke from the bar.

In their bedroom, Susan peeled off her clothes, letting them drop to the floor in a haphazard pile. She felt filthy, not from any physical grime but from the weight of her secrets, from the taint of Ralph's ****, from her own disturbing response to it. And worst of all, filthy from how good feeling filthy felt.

She needed to wash it all away. To cleanse herself, if only temporarily.

The bathroom was spacious and luxurious, befitting the Baxter Building's penthouse. Susan turned the shower to its hottest setting, creating a billowing cloud of steam that quickly filled the room. As she waited for the water to heat, she caught her reflection in the mirror and paused.

The woman who stared back at her looked the same as always – blonde hair, blue eyes, the face that had graced countless magazine covers and news reports. Yet something had changed, something subtle but undeniable. There was a new awareness in her eyes, a knowledge of desires and capacities she'd never acknowledged before.

She turned away from her reflection and stepped into the scalding spray.

The water cascaded over her body, but instead of washing away her turmoil, it seemed to heighten her awareness of every sensation. Each droplet striking her skin reminded her of the tactile pleasure of latex, of the way it clung and compressed and amplified every touch. Her nipples hardened under the spray, her body responding to the memory of that confinement, that second skin that both hid and exposed her.

Susan closed her eyes, letting the water sluice over her face. She should be strategizing, planning how to handle Ralph, how to escape his **** without exposing herself. Instead, her mind kept returning to the moment he'd made his demand, to the surge of dark excitement she'd felt at being caught, at being **** to perform.

What kind of person was aroused by their own ****? What kind of woman found a thrill in being **** into sexual performance?

The kind who'd already been dancing in a strip club voluntarily, a voice inside her whispered. The kind who got wet collecting dollar bills from strangers. The kind who felt a secret thrill every time she lied to her husband about where she was going, what she was doing.

Without conscious decision, Susan's hand drifted between her thighs, finding herself swollen and slick despite the water washing away her natural lubrication. She gasped at the contact, at how sensitive she was, how desperately ready.

"This is wrong," she whispered to herself, even as her fingers began to circle her clit with practiced precision. But the wrongness only heightened her arousal, adding a forbidden spice to her self-pleasure.

As she worked herself toward release, Susan's mind flooded with images from the night – Alexis's hungry gaze as they'd said goodbye, Ebony's hands helping her out of the latex catsuit, the men's eyes following her every movement on stage. And then, unbidden, Ralph's smirking face as he'd laid his trap, as he'd ensnared her with her own secret desires.

"Just dancing," he'd said. But they both knew it was more than that. It was submission. It was surrender to the darkest parts of herself, the parts that craved exposure, degradation, the tawdry exchange of flesh for cash.

Susan's fingers moved faster, her other hand rising to pinch and twist her nipple with almost painful intensity. She imagined herself at Ralph's party, performing for his "cousin" and friends – working-class men with callused hands and hungry eyes, so different from the polished executives and dignitaries she socialized with as Susan Storm-Richards. Men who would see her not as a heroine or a scientist's wife, but as a body to be consumed, a sexual object performing for their pleasure.

The thought should have disgusted her. Instead, it pushed her over the edge.

Susan came with a stifled cry, her body convulsing against the shower wall, her fingers working frantically to prolong the intense pleasure. Wave after wave crashed through her, leaving her gasping and weak-kneed.

Eventually, the water turned cold enough to **** her out. Susan dried herself, wrapped in a towel, and crept to the bed. Reed wasn't there, as she'd expected. Probably fallen asleep in the lab again, his brilliant mind too consumed with whatever project currently occupied it to remember mundane things like bedtime. Or his wife.

She slipped between the sheets naked, too exhausted for pajamas. Sleep came quickly but brought no peace, only dreams of latex and leering faces and dollar bills raining down on her exposed flesh.