Batman?

After the Algorithm has spent days pushing every short skirt and soft silhouette you finally select something solid and safe. Black armor. Cape. Cowl. Utility belt. The full masculine shape that will cover you completely. You add nothing extra. No gaff. No forms. No makeup. The Algorithm logs the choice with a brief note. Deviation recorded. Delivery variance possible.

The package is supposed to arrive the morning of the party. It does not.

A different box appears on your doorstep in the afternoon. The label matches your order number but the contents are wrong. You open it expecting the heavy black pieces. Inside is a fitted Batgirl costume: black and red with purple accents, a short cape, a tight bodysuit cut for a female frame, a small utility belt, and a cowl that leaves the lower face open. The fabric is thin and stretchy. The chest is shaped for curves. The legs are designed to show every line.

You stare at it for a long time. The party starts in a few hours. There is no time for a replacement. The Algorithm sends a message the moment you lift the suit from the box.

Inventory substitution occurred. Batgirl variant delivered. Recommendation: proceed as received. Data opportunity high.

You almost refuse. Then you look at the clock and at the empty space where the Batman suit should be. You take the Batgirl costume into the bedroom.

Preparation is rushed because you never planned for this. You shave quickly. The gaff you still have from earlier experiments goes on out of necessity. Your modest cock is pressed flat and locked down until the front will sit completely smooth. You skip the breast forms at first, then add the smaller pair when the chest of the suit looks wrong without them. Makeup is minimal, just enough to soften the lines under the cowl. When you pull the tight bodysuit on it clings everywhere. The short cape settles at your shoulders. The cowl frames your face. In the mirror the silhouette is unmistakably Batgirl, athletic and fitted, the smooth front hiding the tucked secret completely. Your cock hardens inside the gaff at the sight. The modest length presses against its confinement with nowhere to go.

You leave for the party because the alternative is sitting home in the wrong costume while the Algorithm watches.

The party fills a large warehouse space with strong lighting and a mixed crowd. You walk in wearing Batgirl and the reaction is immediate. People notice the suit, the fit, the short cape. A guy dressed as Nightwing calls out that the franchise is looking good tonight. A woman in a Poison Ivy costume tells you the suit is tight in all the right places. You keep the cowl on and your voice as neutral as possible.

The teasing starts within minutes.

A group near the bar sees you and one of them laughs. “Batgirl made it. Thought you’d be Batman for sure with that order history.” The words land hard. The Algorithm’s reach has clearly gone further than you realized. Another guy in a cheap Joker outfit looks you up and down and says the suit looks better on you than the armored version ever would. His eyes settle on the smooth front and the shaped chest. “No bulk. Clean lines. Works.”

Your cock twitches hard inside the gaff. The modest size makes the pressure sharp. You try to move deeper into the crowd but the comments follow. People assume the switch was intentional. They treat the tight Batgirl suit as a deliberate choice and respond to it that way.

Hands begin to appear.

On the edge of the open floor a man in a Red Hood helmet rests his palm on your waist while he leans in to speak over the music. “Suit’s doing you favors. Legs look good. Cape’s short enough to be interesting.” His hand slides lower and settles on your hip, fingers pressing into the stretchy fabric. You feel the heat of it through the suit. Your cock hardens further, already starting to leak. He keeps the contact while he talks, thumb stroking along the line of your hip, then lets his hand drift back far enough to brush the curve of your ass. The touch is casual and testing. You do not pull away. The cowl hides most of your expression. The suit hides the rest.

More contact builds as the night continues. A woman in a Catwoman suit steps in close during a crowded shift of the floor and runs her fingers along the utility belt, then lower, tracing the smooth plane of your lower stomach. “No gadgets where it counts, huh?” She presses lightly and feels the complete flatness. Her mouth curves. “That’s one way to commit to the look.” Your hips shift without permission. The modest cock throbs against the gaff. She keeps her hand there a second longer before the crowd moves you apart.

The teasing and the touching blend until they feel like the same thing. A tall guy dressed as Superman finds you near a side wall and looks the suit over with open appreciation. “Batgirl. Nice. Thought the other one was coming but this is better.” His hand settles on your shoulder, then slides down your arm, then across to rest at your waist. He keeps talking while his fingers explore the fit of the bodysuit, the line of your ribs, the soft shape of the forms under the chest. When his palm moves lower and presses against the front he feels only smooth fabric and the faint ridge of the gaff. He pauses, then gives a short laugh. “Really committed. Nothing in the way at all.” He does not remove his hand right away. He rubs once, slow, mapping the absence, and your cock kicks hard enough that you are sure he must feel the tiny movement. He only smiles wider and keeps the pressure there while he finishes commenting on the costume.

You stay in the suit. You stay in the crowd. Every remark about the switch from Batman to Batgirl, every hand that tests the fit, every casual grope that finds the smooth front and lingers feeds the same loop. Embarrassment sits in your chest. Arousal sits lower and stronger. Your modest cock is fully hard and soaked inside the gaff, the small size making every press of the tight fabric intense. The cowl lets you keep your face half hidden while people treat the body in the Batgirl costume as open for commentary and touch.

Later a man in a simple black tactical outfit that could pass for any number of characters corners you in a quieter stretch of hallway between the main rooms. He looks at the suit for a long moment.

“You’re the one who ordered Batman and showed up as Batgirl,” he says. It is not a question. “People have been talking about the switch all night.” His hand lands on your hip with more confidence than the earlier touches. “Suit looks good. Fits like you meant it.” He turns you slightly so your back is closer to the wall and lets both hands settle on your waist, then lower, cupping your ass through the thin fabric and giving a firm squeeze. “No bulk under there either. Clean.” One hand slides around to the front and presses flat against the smooth plane where your cock is locked away. He rubs slowly, deliberately, feeling the gaff and the hard modest length trapped beneath it. “That little secret getting any air tonight or are you just taking the teasing?”

Your breath catches. The direct pressure makes your hips twitch. He keeps rubbing while he watches your face under the cowl, reading every small reaction. The hallway is dim. Music covers the sound of your uneven breathing. He works his hand in slow circles, then firmer strokes through the suit, talking in a low voice about how much better the Batgirl version suits the situation and how obvious it is that the body underneath is responding. Your cock leaks steadily. The modest shaft is hypersensitive from hours of confinement and intermittent hands. Embarrassment and arousal lock together until you cannot separate them.

He finally steps back when a group passes the hallway, leaving you against the wall with a throbbing cock and the clear imprint of his hand still fading from the front of the suit. The rest of the night continues in the same pattern. More comments about the costume switch. More hands that find the tight fabric and the smooth front and stay there. More quiet laughter that lands like additional contact. You remain until the party begins to thin because leaving would mean admitting how completely the wrong costume has taken over the night.

When you finally step outside the air is cold against the thinner parts of the suit. Your cock is still hard, still trapped, still aching from the accumulated teasing and groping. The short cape moves with every step home. The cowl stays on until you are inside your apartment with the door locked.

You stand in the dark for a moment before peeling the suit down. The gaff comes off and your modest cock springs free, dark, wet, and desperately sensitive. You wrap a hand around it and stroke once. The contrast between the hours of being handled through the Batgirl costume and the sudden open air is enough to push you close immediately. You come hard after only a few tight pulls, spilling over your fist with a broken sound while the discarded suit lies on the floor at your feet.

The Algorithm’s message arrives while you are still catching your breath.

Substitution accepted. Sustained high arousal under teasing and contact conditions. Costume variance produced stronger response than original Batman selection would have. Data recorded.

You sit on the edge of the bed, cock still twitching, the Batgirl costume in a dark pile, the night’s hands and comments still vivid on your skin.