You choose Spider-Gwen.

The suit arrives in a clean package. White, black, and pink. Hooded. Tight. Athletic cut. You add the gaff, a smooth base layer, modest breast forms that will keep the chest flat and believable under the fabric, and makeup that will stay hidden once the hood is up. The Algorithm sends one short note. No face. No bulge. Assumption rate high.

Preparation takes time. You shave carefully. The tuck comes next. Your modest cock is pressed back and locked down until the front is completely flat. The forms sit low and soft. When you pull the suit on it clings everywhere. Legs, hips, waist, the smooth plane where nothing interrupts the line. You settle the hood, adjust the lenses, and check the mirror. The figure looking back could easily be a fit, flat-chested girl who took the costume seriously. No tell. No outline. Nothing but the suit and the body inside it.

You move around the apartment testing the fit. Every step reminds you how thoroughly the costume hides what you are. Your cock twitches against the gaff at the thought.

The party fills a wide loft with high windows and colored lights cutting through fog. Music hits hard enough to feel in your ribs. You walk in and the hood changes the rules at once. People look at the suit, the way it fits, the anonymous shape wearing it.

Assumptions begin within minutes.

A guy in a demon costume falls in beside you at the bar. “Gwen. That suit is doing too much. You wear it better than the actual character.” His eyes move over the flat chest and the clean front without hesitation. He cannot see your face so he supplies his own version of who you are. You give a small nod. He grins and gets you a drink.

You stay in the crowd. The suit collects attention the way tight, well-made costumes do. Hands brush your waist as people pass. Someone behind you tells a friend that flat-chested girls in spandex should not be allowed to look this good. The words are not aimed straight at you but they land anyway. Your cock hardens inside the gaff. The small size makes the pressure constant and sharp. Every step keeps you aware of what is locked away and how completely the suit erases it.

You dance.

A girl in a black catsuit moves in front of you and matches your rhythm. She reaches back, pulls your hips against her, and stays there. The suit transmits every point of contact. Her body presses to the smooth front and finds nothing but flat fabric and muscle. She glances over her shoulder. “You’re actually good at this. Most people in these things just pose.” You keep moving with her through two more songs before she slips away with a quick wave.

Partners rotate. A tall man in a leather jacket and simple mask takes your hand, spins you, then holds you close. One palm stays on the small of your back. He speaks near the hood. “You have the legs for this costume.” His other hand settles on your hip and stays. He reads the lack of any bulge as proof and treats you accordingly. Your trapped cock throbs. You stay with him until the crowd shifts.

The night turns into a steady stream of the same pattern. Compliments on the suit. Hands resting on your waist or trailing down your arm. Two girls pull you into a short shared dance and tell each other how hot the anonymous Gwen looks. No one asks to see under the hood. No one questions the athletic chest or the smooth front. The costume and the night do all the work. You are simply an attractive flat-chested chick in a perfect Spider-Gwen suit, and the attention follows that story without resistance.

Your cock stays hard the entire time. The gaff and the tight fabric keep it pressed flat, the modest length aching, the head wet. Every brush of contact, every casual assumption, every hand on your body feeds it. You have never been this aware of your size and at the same time so free of it. No one can see it. No one is measuring it. They look at the suit and the body it shows and decide they like what they see.

You step aside near a tall window to catch your breath. The hood is warm. The suit feels fused to your skin. You can still feel the last set of hands on your hips.

She finds you there.

She wears a polished witch costume: deep black dress that fits close, silver detail, a hat set at a sharp angle, makeup that makes her eyes look larger and darker. She looks comfortable in the clothes and in the room. She stops a few feet away and takes you in with clear appreciation.

“That suit is perfect,” she says. Her voice carries cleanly over the music. “The fit is ridiculous. You look like you stepped straight out of the panels.”

You tilt your head in thanks. She steps closer.

“I’m serious. Half the people here are wearing costumes. You’re wearing the character. And the fact that no one can see your face somehow makes it better.” Her eyes travel down the suit again, lingering on the smooth front and the clean line of your thighs. “Flat chest works for Gwen. Keeps it athletic. I like it.”

Your cock kicks hard inside the gaff at the casual confirmation. She notices the small shift in your posture and smiles.

“I’m here with my boyfriend. Big guy in the Frankenstein gear near the back wall. Green skin, bolts, full commitment. We’ve been watching the floor for a while.” She glances over her shoulder, then back at you. “We both think you look good enough to take home. The anonymous thing works for us.”

She lets the words sit while the music continues around you.

“We’re leaving soon for somewhere quieter. Just the two of us and, if you want, you. You can keep the hood on the whole time if that feels better. We like the mystery. Threesome, straightforward and friendly. You in that suit between us for a while.” She smiles, slow and certain. “He’s strong enough to put you wherever he wants you, and I’m direct enough to tell him exactly how. You would not have to do much except take it and enjoy it.”

The offer hangs in the air. Your cock throbs so steadily you almost expect the suit to show it, yet the tuck and the fabric keep everything perfectly smooth. She has read you as a flat-chested girl in a perfect costume and invited you into their night on that basis alone.

She reaches out and rests two fingers on your forearm. Even through the suit the contact feels charged.

“You don’t have to decide right now. I’m going to find him and finish my drink. If you want in, come find the witch and the Frankenstein before we leave. If not, no problem. You still look incredible.”

She gives the suit one last look, then turns and walks back toward the far side of the loft. You watch her go. Your heart beats hard against the tight chest of the costume. Your cock leaks inside the gaff, the small shaft fully hard and desperate for any real friction.

Around you the party keeps moving. Lights sweep. Music pounds. People still glance at the Spider-Gwen suit as they pass. The assumptions hold. No one sees a man with a modest cock locked away. They see an attractive, anonymous, flat-chested chick who has collected attention all night and has just been offered more.

You stand by the window in the full suit, hood still up, body still humming from hours of being wanted under a false but perfect story, and the witch’s invitation echoing in your head.