The warehouse loomed like a forgotten relic, its rusted walls swallowed by the night. I’d found the invitation tucked into my coat pocket after a late shift—black cardstock, silver lettering: Gala. Midnight. LaTeX required. Masks mandatory. No address, just a set of coordinates that led me here, to this abandoned sprawl on the edge of the city. My heart thudded as I approached, the distant thump of bass vibrating through the ground. I adjusted my mask—polished black, featureless save for eye slits—and smoothed the LaTeX bodysuit that hugged me from neck to ankle. It was my first time wearing something so… complete. The glossy material creaked with every step, tight and unyielding, a second skin that made me feel both exposed and invincible.
Inside, the air was electric. Shadows danced across the cavernous space, lit by strobing lights that glinted off dozens of LaTeX-clad bodies. Everyone was anonymous, their forms sculpted in gleaming black, red, and silver, masks concealing all but the hunger in their eyes. The music pulsed, a primal beat that synced with the rhythm of my breath, amplified by the suit’s grip. I lingered near the edge, watching couples sway and grind, the creak of rubber mingling with low laughter and gasps. It was intoxicating—dangerous—and I was already hooked.
Then I saw her.
She stood across the room, a vision in shimmering black LaTeX that caught the flickering lights like a dark mirror. Her catsuit was seamless, outlining a body that radiated control—long legs, sharp curves, a posture that demanded attention. Her mask was sleek, angular, with a subtle crown-like ridge, and her eyes locked onto mine through the chaos. She didn’t move, didn’t beckon, but I felt the pull—a predator sizing up prey. My mouth went dry, and I took a step forward, the LaTeX creaking as I moved.
She met me halfway, her stride effortless, the glossy suit shifting with every step. Up close, she was taller, her presence overwhelming. “New blood,” she said, her voice a low, smoky drawl that cut through the music. “You’re bold to come here unprepared.”
I tilted my head, matching her gaze. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
Her lips—painted a deep red, the only color breaking the black—curved into a smirk. “Let’s see how long that lasts.” She extended a gloved hand, the LaTeX gleaming, and I took it. The contact was electric, her grip firm as she pulled me onto the dance floor.
The music slowed, a sultry rhythm that matched the sway of our bodies. She pressed against me, the slick friction of our suits igniting sparks where we touched. Her hands slid to my hips, guiding me, the creak of LaTeX a constant whisper beneath the beat. I matched her, tentative at first, then bolder, my fingers tracing the contours of her waist. The material was warm from her skin, tight and smooth, and I couldn’t tell where the suit ended and she began. Her breath brushed my neck, hot through the mask, and I shivered, the suit amplifying every sensation—the pressure, the heat, the tease of her closeness.
“You move well,” she murmured, her hands drifting lower, testing my resolve. “But this isn’t just a dance.”
“What is it, then?” I asked, my voice unsteady.
“A game.” She spun me, pulling me back against her chest, her arms locking around me. “Power. Surrender. You choose.” Her gloved fingers grazed my throat, then slid down, tracing the outline of my chest through the LaTeX. My nipples hardened, visible beneath the glossy black, and she chuckled—a sound that vibrated through me. “Or maybe I do.”
The crowd faded as she led me to a shadowed corner, the lights dimmer here, the air thick with anticipation. A low bench stood against the wall, draped in black fabric, and she pushed me toward it—not rough, but firm, a command I didn’t resist. I sat, the LaTeX creaking as I shifted, and she loomed over me, her silhouette a glossy statue of control.
“Hands behind you,” she said, and I obeyed, the suit stretching tight across my shoulders. She straddled my lap, the weight of her pressing me down, our suits sliding together with a slick, maddening friction. Her fingers found a hidden zipper at my chest, peeling it open just enough to expose my skin to the cool air. I gasped, and she leaned in, her lips brushing my ear. “Good. Let it out.”
Her hands roamed, teasing where the LaTeX clung thinnest, her gloves amplifying every touch. I arched, the suit holding me taut as she explored, her nails grazing through the material, igniting heat that pooled low in my core. She shifted, unzipping a seam at her own suit—strategically placed, deliberate—and I caught a glimpse of skin, flushed and ready. The sight snapped something in me, and I surged forward, kissing her hard, tasting the faintest hint of rubber and salt.
She laughed into my mouth, then pushed me back, pinning my wrists again. “Eager,” she said, her voice rough with want. “I like that.” She guided my hand to her, letting me feel the heat beneath the LaTeX, then rocked against me, the creak of our suits a rhythm of its own. I matched her, desperation building as the material stretched and slid, amplifying every thrust, every grind.
Her mask stayed on, but her eyes burned into mine as she unzipped me further, exposing just enough. Her gloved hand wrapped around me, the cool gloss a shock against my heat, and I groaned, the sound swallowed by the music. She moved with purpose, stroking slow then fast, the LaTeX creaking with her rhythm until I was trembling, on the edge. Then she shifted, straddling me fully, guiding me inside her with a slick, tight heat that made us both gasp. The suits clung, sliding together as she rode me, the friction unbearable, electric. Her hands gripped my shoulders, nails digging through the material, and I thrust up to meet her, the bench rocking beneath us.
The world narrowed to the creak of LaTeX, the heat of her, the pulse of pleasure building until it broke. I came with a shudder, the suit amplifying every wave, and she followed, her head tipping back as she clenched around me, a low moan escaping her painted lips. We stayed there, breathless, the glossy black still tight against our skin, slick with sweat and satisfaction.
She slid off me, adjusting her suit with a practiced ease. “You survived,” she said, her smirk returning. “This time.” She turned, melting back into the crowd, leaving me dazed, the LaTeX still whispering against my skin.
I’d find her again. I had to.
Inside, the air was electric. Shadows danced across the cavernous space, lit by strobing lights that glinted off dozens of LaTeX-clad bodies. Everyone was anonymous, their forms sculpted in gleaming black, red, and silver, masks concealing all but the hunger in their eyes. The music pulsed, a primal beat that synced with the rhythm of my breath, amplified by the suit’s grip. I lingered near the edge, watching couples sway and grind, the creak of rubber mingling with low laughter and gasps. It was intoxicating—dangerous—and I was already hooked.
Then I saw her.
She stood across the room, a vision in shimmering black LaTeX that caught the flickering lights like a dark mirror. Her catsuit was seamless, outlining a body that radiated control—long legs, sharp curves, a posture that demanded attention. Her mask was sleek, angular, with a subtle crown-like ridge, and her eyes locked onto mine through the chaos. She didn’t move, didn’t beckon, but I felt the pull—a predator sizing up prey. My mouth went dry, and I took a step forward, the LaTeX creaking as I moved.
She met me halfway, her stride effortless, the glossy suit shifting with every step. Up close, she was taller, her presence overwhelming. “New blood,” she said, her voice a low, smoky drawl that cut through the music. “You’re bold to come here unprepared.”
I tilted my head, matching her gaze. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
Her lips—painted a deep red, the only color breaking the black—curved into a smirk. “Let’s see how long that lasts.” She extended a gloved hand, the LaTeX gleaming, and I took it. The contact was electric, her grip firm as she pulled me onto the dance floor.
The music slowed, a sultry rhythm that matched the sway of our bodies. She pressed against me, the slick friction of our suits igniting sparks where we touched. Her hands slid to my hips, guiding me, the creak of LaTeX a constant whisper beneath the beat. I matched her, tentative at first, then bolder, my fingers tracing the contours of her waist. The material was warm from her skin, tight and smooth, and I couldn’t tell where the suit ended and she began. Her breath brushed my neck, hot through the mask, and I shivered, the suit amplifying every sensation—the pressure, the heat, the tease of her closeness.
“You move well,” she murmured, her hands drifting lower, testing my resolve. “But this isn’t just a dance.”
“What is it, then?” I asked, my voice unsteady.
“A game.” She spun me, pulling me back against her chest, her arms locking around me. “Power. Surrender. You choose.” Her gloved fingers grazed my throat, then slid down, tracing the outline of my chest through the LaTeX. My nipples hardened, visible beneath the glossy black, and she chuckled—a sound that vibrated through me. “Or maybe I do.”
The crowd faded as she led me to a shadowed corner, the lights dimmer here, the air thick with anticipation. A low bench stood against the wall, draped in black fabric, and she pushed me toward it—not rough, but firm, a command I didn’t resist. I sat, the LaTeX creaking as I shifted, and she loomed over me, her silhouette a glossy statue of control.
“Hands behind you,” she said, and I obeyed, the suit stretching tight across my shoulders. She straddled my lap, the weight of her pressing me down, our suits sliding together with a slick, maddening friction. Her fingers found a hidden zipper at my chest, peeling it open just enough to expose my skin to the cool air. I gasped, and she leaned in, her lips brushing my ear. “Good. Let it out.”
Her hands roamed, teasing where the LaTeX clung thinnest, her gloves amplifying every touch. I arched, the suit holding me taut as she explored, her nails grazing through the material, igniting heat that pooled low in my core. She shifted, unzipping a seam at her own suit—strategically placed, deliberate—and I caught a glimpse of skin, flushed and ready. The sight snapped something in me, and I surged forward, kissing her hard, tasting the faintest hint of rubber and salt.
She laughed into my mouth, then pushed me back, pinning my wrists again. “Eager,” she said, her voice rough with want. “I like that.” She guided my hand to her, letting me feel the heat beneath the LaTeX, then rocked against me, the creak of our suits a rhythm of its own. I matched her, desperation building as the material stretched and slid, amplifying every thrust, every grind.
Her mask stayed on, but her eyes burned into mine as she unzipped me further, exposing just enough. Her gloved hand wrapped around me, the cool gloss a shock against my heat, and I groaned, the sound swallowed by the music. She moved with purpose, stroking slow then fast, the LaTeX creaking with her rhythm until I was trembling, on the edge. Then she shifted, straddling me fully, guiding me inside her with a slick, tight heat that made us both gasp. The suits clung, sliding together as she rode me, the friction unbearable, electric. Her hands gripped my shoulders, nails digging through the material, and I thrust up to meet her, the bench rocking beneath us.
The world narrowed to the creak of LaTeX, the heat of her, the pulse of pleasure building until it broke. I came with a shudder, the suit amplifying every wave, and she followed, her head tipping back as she clenched around me, a low moan escaping her painted lips. We stayed there, breathless, the glossy black still tight against our skin, slick with sweat and satisfaction.
She slid off me, adjusting her suit with a practiced ease. “You survived,” she said, her smirk returning. “This time.” She turned, melting back into the crowd, leaving me dazed, the LaTeX still whispering against my skin.
I’d find her again. I had to.
