Tell Pan yes — you want to try the catgirl costume.

Pandora's Box Costume Shop, Birch Street, at 11:50 PM on Wednesday October 30th, 2024

"Yes," I say.

The word comes out barely louder than a breath. My throat is dry. My hands are trembling at my sides. But I say it again, louder this time, because some part of me needs to hear it — needs to make it real.

"Yes. I want to try it. The catgirl costume."

Pan's entire body language shifts. The teasing patience drains from her posture and something else takes its place — something raw and predatory and hungry. Her amber eyes blaze like molten gold, those slit pupils dilating until they're nearly round. A slow, devastating smile spreads across her full lips, and she takes one step toward me, then another, closing the distance I'd created when I reached for the door.

"Say it again," she whispers. Her hand finds my jaw again, tilting my face up. "Tell me what you want, Trevor."

"The catgirl costume," I repeat. My cock twitches in my loose boxers — that pathetic, shrunken thing — and the phantom emptiness between my legs pulses with desperate need. "I want to know what it feels like."

"Oh, you will." She releases my jaw and steps back, reaching into the blazer pocket. She produces a small black card — the size of a tarot card, embossed with a silver cat silhouette. She holds it between two fingers, presenting it like a prize. "Take this to the fitting room. The costume will be waiting for you."

I reach for the card. My fingers brush hers and electricity shoots up my arm — literal electricity, a crackle of static that makes my enhanced skin sing. She lets me take it, her fingertips trailing across my palm.

"One thing, love." She catches my wrist before I can turn away. Her voice drops to something intimate, conspiratorial. "The condition for this one is... demanding. You'll need to be filled completely. Every opening. Simultaneously. Until you come so hard you can't see straight." Her thumb strokes my pulse point. "I'll be right here when you need me. And I'll bring friends."

She releases me. I walk back across the shop floor on legs that feel like they belong to someone else — someone who makes decisions like this, someone who chooses this. The racks of costumes seem to lean toward me as I pass, fabric rustling without any breeze. The fitting room door is still open, the bench still there, the mirror still reflecting my flushed, haunted face.

The black card is warm in my hand. I step inside and close the door.

On the bench, folded with impossible precision, sits the costume. A sleek black bodysuit — no, not a bodysuit. A bikini top of glossy black material with cat-ear clips attached. A matching thong. A thin collar with a tiny silver bell. And a separate piece — a long, flexible tail, black fur over what feels like warm silicone, with a plug at its base.

I stare at it. My reflection stares back — scrawny, flushed, nipples visibly hard through my t-shirt. The bell on the collar catches the light and chimes softly, a sound that makes my phantom pussy clench.

I'm already reaching for the thong before I consciously decide to undress.