Tease the superheroine

Cleo Capone doesn't speak.

Not right away.

Instead, she moves—slowly, deliberately—circling behind the velvet chaise lounge like a panther in a silk robe. The soft jazz hums on in the background, barely masking the sound of her bare footfalls on the marble floor. Her shadow crawls up the far wall, tall and theatrical, stretching like some wicked alter ego.

Velvet Vixen watches her go, twisting in place as far as her bonds allow. Her arms stretch tight to the corners of the lounge, her wrists darkened slightly from the struggle, her legs bound open and pressed against the polished wood. The ropes don’t budge. The gag muffles every breath.

And Cleo?

Cleo’s enjoying the silence.

She stops behind the chaise, just out of Kendrick’s view, and takes a moment to admire her captive—the flex of fabric against rope, the slight rise and fall of her chest, the helpless tension in her legs. Then, with a grin that no one can see, she reaches into her robe and produces a long, delicate black feather.

The kind you'd expect on a fan, or a hat from a forgotten decade.

Whisper-soft.

The feather glides along the inside of Velvet Vixen’s calf.

Kendrick jerks.

A muffled noise escapes her throat. A grunt. Maybe a yelp. But Cleo doesn’t stop.

Whisper-soft.

She traces the feather up along the curve of the boot, past the knee, across the inner thigh where the sash tightens and tugs slightly with the movement.

Velvet Vixen writhes harder this time, twisting her body away from the sensation—but there’s nowhere to go. She’s too tightly bound, too perfectly arranged.

“Sensitive?” Cleo’s voice hums from behind her. “Good.”

The feather continues upward, brushing the edge of the corset. Cleo leans closer, her breath warm against the back of Kendrick’s neck.

“You know what I love about you, Vixen?” she whispers.

The feather slides across Kendrick’s collarbone, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“You fight so hard. Act so tough. But in the right hands…”

She presses the feather to Velvet Vixen’s cheek—so gentle, it almost tickles.

“You’re putty.”

Velvet Vixen lets out a **** grunt through her gag and bucks against the chaise, cheeks flushed bright red.

Cleo steps back, feather still in hand, and lets the moment breathe. She sets it down on the armrest like a calling card.

“Think about that, kitten.”

She walks away again—her hips swaying, her expression unreadable—as the music swells and the ropes remain beautifully, frustratingly inescapable.