Sculpted Shame

The dim light of the Wayne Tech Lab flickered as Batgirl, Nightwing, and Red Robin closed in on their target. The sleek, high-tech gadgets on their belts shift slightly as they crouched silently, their footsteps barely a whisper against the cold concrete floor. In front of them, the dark figure of Clayface stood, his clay-like imposingly large.

Batgirl, Barbara Gordon, adjusted the lenses on her cowl, keeping her focus sharp. "We've got him," she said in a low voice, signaling to Dick and Tim to fan out and surround the room.

Without warning, Clayface grinned, a vile, twisted expression that only a villain like him could wear. His form rippled and shifted, the familiar shape of the Batgirl costume melding into his form. The blue and grey of the suit stretched over his body as his face reshaped into an exact imitation of Barbara’s own features.

"What's the matter, Batgirl?" Clayface taunted, his voice now distorted into a sickening rendition of her own. "Afraid of your own reflection?"

Batgirl’s fists clenched, her heart racing with a mix of anger and disgust. "How dare you."

But Clayface wasn’t done. With a fluid movement, he grabbed the waist of the costume, ripping it as if it was a shirt as he pulled the suit higher,exposing his version of Barbara’s underboob. Her tight, grey shirt pulled up as his body appeared like a near perfect copy of Barbara’s, Too perfect even, smooth, no constellation of freckles, no scar from that Gotham Pier shiv fight, just eerily airbrushed D-cups spilling free as the costume tore.

A heat of humiliation rose in Barbara’s chest, her eyes flaring with fury. The scene seemed to freeze for a moment. In the back of her mind, she could hear Dick and Tim calling out, but it didn’t matter. This wasn’t about them. This was about her,about protecting everything she stood for.

But before the full realization of what Clayface intended could hit her, Barbara acted on pure instinct. With a fluid motion, she threw a flashbang into the air, the blinding light filling the lab. Dick and Tim stumbled back, temporarily blinded by the intense flash of light. But in that chaos, Clayface,the disgusting imitation of her own self,was able to slip away, his figure morphing and distorting as he fled into the shadows.

Barbara stood frozen, still grappling with the humiliation of the moment. She could feel her cheeks burning beneath her cowl, a tight knot forming in her stomach. "I’ll make him pay," she muttered under her breath, fury replacing the momentary shame.

“Stay here,” Barbara ordered sharply, her voice full of raw determination. She was no longer thinking clearly, rage had clouded her judgment, her need for retribution pushing everything else aside. "This is mine to deal with."

Dick and Tim both hesitated, but Barbara was already gone before they could protest. Her boots echoed loudly as she sprinted down the alley, following the trail of Clayface’s escape. Every muscle in her body was tense, the desire to catch him,and make him suffer,consuming her.

The streets of Gotham were dark and empty, the usual hum of the city far away as she chased Clayface through the narrow alleys and rain-soaked streets. Her eyes scanned every corner, every shadow, knowing that somewhere ahead, he was still wearing her face, her body,her dignity.

She had to stop him before the world could see her like this. The last thing Barbara Gordon wanted was to be exposed as anything less than the strong, capable hero Gotham knew her to be.

"Clayface!" she shouted into the night, her voice trembling with both anger and desperation. "Come back here and face me!"

The streets seemed to echo with the mocking laughter of her enemy, who was still wearing her face. Still wearing her body. Her hands balled into fists, ready to strike when she finally caught up.

Barbara knew she couldn’t let anyone,*anyone*,see what Clayface had made her look like. The humiliation was already too much, but she couldn’t afford to let Gotham know how much it stung. How Clayface had twisted her own image against her.

Her breath quickened as she pushed herself faster, ignoring the burn in her legs. Every inch of her body screamed for justice. For retribution. She could almost taste it.

Gotham's shadows were long and cold, but Barbara’s determination burned hotter than ever. She had tracked Clayface through the labyrinthine alleys, her boots slapping against the wet pavement as she turned corner after corner, pushing herself relentlessly to catch up. Finally, she reached the end of an alley,an empty, narrow dead-end. Clayface had nowhere left to go.

She stood still for a moment, catching her breath, her fists clenched tightly at her sides. She could see him in the distance, still in the form of Batgirl,her face, her body, a grotesque imitation of everything she had fought for. His eyes, glowing with malicious glee, locked onto hers.

Clayface raised his arms theatrically. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the great Batgirl.” His voice mocked her, a cruel distortion of her own. “What a pity. Gotham’s hero, so ****, so weak.”

Barbara's teeth ground together, her jaw tightening as she prepared herself. “I’m not here for your games, Clayface. You’re going to pay for what you did.”

Clayface laughed, the sound deep and mocking. “Pay? No, Batgirl. I think it’s you who needs to pay, don’t you? Maybe this will help you understand.”

With a sickening slither, Clayface morphed again, his body shifting into a more perfect, flawless version of Barbara, naked but still with the cowl, her skin unmarred by any imperfections. Her body, without a single freckle or scar, was a cruel mockery of everything that made Batgirl real. There was one glaring difference, though: Clayface’s version of Barbara was completely smooth, clean-shaven, with no traces of the woman that Barbara really was.

Barbara's stomach turned, her pulse racing with fury and humiliation. He was trying to strip away everything she stood for, reducing her to nothing more than a hollow imitation of herself.

Clayface grinned wickedly, his eyes filled with amusement. “What’s the matter, Batgirl? Feeling a little exposed? I think I’ve finally figured you out. Your biggest weakness isn’t in your crime-fighting skills, no. It’s your nudity. The real you, under that mask, would be far more... interesting, wouldn’t it?”

Her blood boiled. “Shut up!” she snapped, her voice trembling with anger. But Clayface only laughed louder, the sound echoing around the alley.

"I wish I could see the real you," he continued, his voice full of venom, "without that mask. Then I could really show Gotham what Batgirl is hiding, wouldn’t we?”

Barbara clenched her fists, her breath shallow as his cruel words cut deep. She was humiliated,more than she had ever been in her life,but the anger, the rage that burned within her was stronger. She wouldn’t let him get away with this. Not now. Not ever.

In a flash of movement, Barbara reached for her utility belt. She didn’t have time for this. She had to end it. With a practiced motion, she pulled out a concussive grenade, the small device feeling heavy in her palm as she primed it.

Without a second thought, she threw it at Clayface. The grenade exploded with a deafening roar, a powerful shockwave hitting him square in the chest. The **** of the blast knocked Clayface out of Batgirl’s form, his body crumbling back into its monstrous, mud-like shape. His grotesque, shifting form writhed and contorted as the effects of the grenade took hold, sending him tumbling to the ground in a pile of slimy clay.

Barbara stood, chest heaving with breaths that came in ragged bursts, her fists still clenched. The rage still burned within her, but a part of her was also deeply embarrassed. She could still feel the image of Clayface’s mocking, naked version of her seared into her mind. The humiliation of his taunts lingered, but she refused to let it defeat her.

Barbara slowly approached the pile of clay, her eyes narrowed. “This isn’t over, Clayface,” she muttered. “You’ve made a mistake. A big one.”

As soon as the fight began, Batgirl lunged at Clayface, aiming a precise strike at his shifting form. But the mud twisted and coiled around her arms, pulling her back. She struggled, using all of her strength, but for every tendril she ripped away, two more wrapped around her.

Clayface laughed, his voice echoing through the alley. "You're fighting so hard, Batgirl. But why? We both know how this is going to end."

Barbara gritted her teeth and kicked off the wall, using the **** to tear free from his grip. But it was too late. She heard the sickening rip before she felt it,the sound of fabric tearing as Clayface’s tendrils pulled at her suit.

"Stop!" she shouted, but the tendrils kept pulling, kept wrapping around her body. More pieces of her suit were shredded away, leaving her more exposed with every passing second.

Clayface’s voice was full of wicked amusement. “Since you’re so against anyone seeing the fake you naked, how about we show everyone the real thing?”

The realization hit her like a punch to the gut. She was losing. Not just the fight, but herself. Her dignity.

Clayface’s laughter gurgled wetly as his mud tendrils coiled around Batgirl’s waist. "You’re squealing like a piglet, Batsy. Let’s see if the Bat-brat’s got bacon under all that spandex!" The cold, gelatinous sludge seeped through her suit, its slimy texture writhing like tongues against her thighs. Barbara gasped as a tendril slid down her spine entering her ass crack, then tearing the grey kevlar at the back with a wet rrrrip.

Barbara bit her lip, trying to suppress a gasp as Clayface’s tendrils continued to explore her, pushing her further into a state of fear and unwanted sensation.

"Fuck—stop!" Her voice cracked as the mud slithered under her collar, splitting the Kevlar down her sternum. Her breasts jolted free, nipples stiffening instantly in the frigid air. Clayface’s tendrils cupped them, kneading roughly. "Oh-ho! Cold nips for Gotham’s cold heart!" he jeered. Barbara thrashed, but the mud tightened, pulling her suit further apart. A thick tendril dragged down her abdomen, shredding the fabric to her navel. Her trimmed red bush glistened under the moonlight, curls matted with cold sludge.

The humiliation burned. Her body betrayed her: her clit throbbed as a tendril teased her outer lips, the slime oozing into her folds. "N-no—don’t you dare—" She arched despite herself, a traitorous moan escaping as the mud circled her clit. Clayface growled, "There it is. Hero’s just a needy cunt in a cape."

Barbara gasped, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths as Clayface’s form pressed closer. She could feel the mud squeezing against her face, his tendrils spreading her legs apart, threatening to invade her most intimate places further. The humiliation burned hotter than ever, but beneath it, a fierce determination simmered.

With a **** surge of strength, Barbara reached for her utility belt. Her fingers fumbled for a moment before finding purchase on a concussive grenade. With a swift motion, she armed the device and slammed it into Clayface’s mass. The explosion was deafening, a shockwave of **** that sent her flying backward, crashing into the alley wall.

As the smoke cleared, Barbara staggered to her feet, her body trembling with exertion. She was battered, her suit in tatters, but she was still standing. The fight wasn’t over yet.

Clayface writhed in pain, his form still shifting and twisting. The concussive blast had disoriented him, buying Barbara a moment of reprieve. She took a deep breath, her mind racing as she assessed her next move.

Barbara’s eyes narrowed, her jaw set in determination. “This ends now, Clayface,” she growled, her voice low and steady. “No more games.”

Barbara's chest heaved as she caught her breath, her body still trembling from the adrenaline of the fight. She knew she couldn’t let Clayface escape,not again. With a determined focus, she reached for her utility belt, fingers wrapping around cryo grenades.

Without hesitation, she threw them at Clayface, the grenades exploding with freezing ****. Ice crept across his muddy form, encasing him in a solid, immovable prison.

As Clayface froze, Barbara sank to her knees, exhaustion washing over her. Her suit was in ruins, torn and shredded by Clayface’s tendrils. She was left exposed, her naked body covered in mud and sweat, her breasts heaving with each labored breath. The remnants of her cape barely covered her, a stark contrast to the hero Gotham knew.

Footsteps echoed through the alley, and Barbara looked up to see Dick, Tim, and the rest of the Batfamily rushing toward her. Their faces mirrored shock and concern as they took in the scene,their beloved Batgirl, **** and exposed.

Barbara’s cheeks burned with humiliation, her pride bruised by the unwanted exposure. She stumbled to her feet, trying to regain her composure, but her nakedness was undeniable. Her bushy crotch, her curvy physique,every inch of her was on display in a way she had never wanted anyone to see.

Dick reached out a hand to help her, his voice filled with worry. “Barbara, are you okay?”

She nodded, swallowing back the lump in her throat. “I will be.”

Tim moved closer, his expression a mix of anger and concern. “We’ll take care of Clayface.”

Barbara cut him off with a firm shake of her head. “Okay. but I’ll be taking the batmobile to the cave alone.”

With a shaky breath, she turned away from them, limping slightly as she made her way to where the Batmobile waited,a beacon of safety and anonymity. She couldn’t face them, not now. Not after what had happened.

As she climbed into the driver’s seat, Barbara’s hands trembled on the wheel. The sounds of the concussive grenade still echoed in her ears, a painful reminder of the fight she had endured. She knew the scars would heal, but the memory of Clayface’s mocking taunts, of her naked vulnerability, would linger far longer.

With a heavy heart, Barbara started the engine and drove away from the alley, leaving behind the ruins of her battle. She was Batgirl,strong, capable, resilient,but tonight, she carried a new weight on her shoulders. A reminder that even heroes had moments of weakness.

The Batmobile’s engine growled as Barbara white-knuckled the steering wheel, her naked body hyper-aware of every sensation. The leather seat clung to her raw, mud-smeared ass like a pervert’s palm, and the cold air blasting from the vents hardened her nipples into aching peaks. She glanced down, her breasts swayed with every turn, streaks of Clayface’s brown sludge still clinging to their curves. Her pubic hair was matted into crispy clumps, the slimy residue cooling against her swollen lips. "Fuck," she hissed, thighs squeezing instinctively as a dried tendril fragment fell from her inner thigh onto the seat.

The Batcave’s floodlights blinded her as she skidded into the garage. Barbara hesitated, her hand hovering over the button to open the cockpit of the batmobile. Her reflection in the tinted window taunted her: finally she opened and stepped out her naked body visible under the cave lights, every bruise and scratch on her pale skin glowing under sterile light. Her feet hit the concrete, and she stumbled, as the cold air of the cave suddenly surrounded her. The chill crawled up her legs, tightening her nipples further.

Barbara staggered into the Batcave’s locker room, her shredded cape dragging behind her like a soiled banner. Clayface’s slime crusted her skin, gluing the remnants of her suit to her body. The cowl hung crooked, one lens cracked, half her face exposed—pale cheek flushed, lips trembling. She gripped the edge of a sink, staring at her fractured reflection: mascara-blind rage, one breast bare, the other barely covered by a frayed strip of Kevlar.

Her gloves fumbled with the utility belt still clinging to her hips, its pouches torn open. "Goddamn piece of shit," she muttered, yanking the buckle until it snapped. The belt clattered to the floor, taking the last scrap of her leggings with it. Her bush, matted with brown sludge, prickled in the cave’s damp air.

The boots came next. She kicked them off violently, wincing as the left one caught on her mud-caked ankle. It thudded against the wall, leaving a wet streak. Her cape, its once-proud emblem reduced to a claw-marked rag, slid off her shoulders, pooling at her feet. She stood there, fully naked now, except for the cracked cowl.

"Not even that," she hissed, clawing it off her head. Red hair tumbled free, sticky with sweat and filth.

The shower hissed to life, steam curling around her as she stepped under the jet. Scalding water slammed into her, melting Clayface’s sludge into rivers down her thighs.