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Regardless of the fact that he was currently blindfolded, Kevin was well aware he needed a new outfit.
It wasn’t fair that Turquoise and Obsidian were now wearing body-hugging dark-blue getups, their thighs exposed, with swaths of fabric missing at the back showing the bottoms of their ass cheeks. What they wore wasn’t practical, but most exemplars didn’t wear practical clothing.
As Kevin had seen multiple times at the immigration office, it came with the territory. Supers weren’t all vain, but most knew their clothing set them apart from non-exemplars, which had led non-exemplars to dress in similar ways, imitation being the successful casualty of flattery.
Even though Kevin was overweight, and his BMI alone would have forced the doctor to write him any number of prescriptions to combat diabetes and heart disease, Kevin fancied an outfit that made him look stronger.
He didn’t have muscles per se, but his arms were rather thick, so if someone designed a custom number for him, he could have some stitching that forced his arm fat into muscles. Regarding his waistline: as long as his pants were below the bottom of his belly, and not a high-waisted horror show that would give him a weird lump of fat just above his proof of Kevinhood, he’d be good to go.
Kevin had seen some supers—even a Type I—whose powers dealt with their girth. It was definitely a viable look.
Anything would have been better than the hospital gown he currently wore, its back open and his pale, dimpled, white ass visible, a cold draft tickling the hairs on his bum. Add to this his inability to see anything due to the black cloth covering his eyes, and Kevin felt exposed, more exposed than in a while, and this was coming from the man who’d been kidnapped and sex-tortured by poisonous cat girls over the last several days.
“Where are we again?” he asked Turquoise.
“You don’t need to know where we are; I’ve already told you that, so don’t ask me again, sweetie.”
Sweetie. Kevin liked that. His wife, Susan, had never had such cute names for him. She generally referred to him as Tubby, or Fat Dick, because he was fat and he had a large dick, not because he had a chode. Sometimes she “lovingly” called him Tubby Fat Dick.
So “sweetie” was fine by Kevin.
While the cat girls hadn’t given him new clothing, at least the two had been nice to him over the afternoon. They’d fooled around quite a bit, and Kevin’s balls felt more drained than they’d ever felt before. He didn’t know why the two were so horny, or what they saw in the middle-aged former immigration advisor who was presumed dead, but he didn’t question it.
Things were better that way.
The three came to a stop, and the blindfolded Kevin was told to wait outside with Obsidian.
Turquoise entered, and he heard her muffled voice behind a thick door. His nostrils flared; the place smelled like cardboard boxes, like a musty attic.
“We’re in a warehouse,” Obsidian whispered, her black cat ears flickering. “It’s where Paris holds these types of meetings.”
“It sounded a bit cavernous.” Kevin cleared his throat. “And thanks for telling me.”
“I don’t know why Turquoise wouldn’t tell you. I’m more open,” Obsidian said, her tail lightly flitting against Kevin’s ass.
He started to laugh. “That tickles...”
“Stopping playing around,” Turquoise told Obsidian as she stepped back out of the room.
“Just joking with Kevin...”
“Paris and Ian are ready.”
“Ian?” Kevin asked as they continued forward. His blindfold was removed by Turquoise, who kept the fabric gripped tightly in the hand that was always fumbling with prayer beads.
It only took a moment for Kevin’s eyes to adjust to the light, mainly due to how dark the room was, only lit by a single panel of glass placed high on the wall.
Paris sat at the front of the table, one leg crossed over the other, a bitchy look on her face that reminded him of his former manager, Selena, who’d been especially brutal with him since taking over their department earlier that year.
Kevin took Paris in for a moment, from her dark bangs down to the tight pencil skirt she wore. He had a feeling she was an exemplar, just like the man who sat next to her, a towering goliath with red skin, black clothing, a silver necklace, and thick protrusions jutting out of his forearms.
Definitely a Type II Class C, Kevin thought, unless he’s killed someone. Then he may be a Type I...
The two continued talking as if Kevin wasn’t standing before them partially nude.
“It really was that easy,” said the man Kevin assumed was Ian. “I don’t know how this guy did it, either. I know you promised you could do something, but I’m not going to lie, I was ready to tear that place down trying to escape. I was damn certain they’d come for me.”
“I don’t know what he did, but whatever it was, it worked. You’re now here legally. And I hope you wouldn’t be stupid enough to attack a Centralian government building.”
“Like I said, I was ready. But everything worked out okay. The rest went pretty easily because of his letter of appeal. The Overstay Committee realized their error, and that was that. I just need to file the extension in three months, filing early this time.”
Paris rolled her eyes. “You’ve never done anything on time. That’s why you were in that predicament in the first place.”
“He also had my felony changed to a misdemeanor, the real reason I was getting caught in the system. I don’t know who that guy is, but your hookup at the immigration office is worth his weight in gold.”
Immigration office? Kevin tried to parse through what they’d just said. Who could they be talking about?
“And I’m not even paying him—can you believe that?” Paris said under her breath as she turned to Kevin. “So this is the famed Kevin Blackbook, huh?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Kevin started to sputter.
Ian laughed, long and hard, a laugh the former immigration advisor was all too familiar with. The big man’s tone matched that of many of the bullies who had fucked with Kevin over his forty-odd years.
“And how have the girls been to you?” she asked, an eyebrow lifting. “Have they been treating you well?”
“Sure,” he said, not wanting to throw them under the bus. He looked left to see Obsidian smiling, her sharp canines on display. Turquoise had a similar look, although one of her ears was bent forward.
“Good, because we wouldn’t want an important guest such as yourself inconvenienced. I see they scratched you some.”
“Some” was an understatement. Kevin had claw marks everywhere, on every part of his body. Most were small, but a few—especially on the insides of his thighs—were quite thick.
“I’m sorry for that. They can get a little touchy.”
“It’s fine,” Kevin said.
Ian snorted. “Ever heard the phrase, ‘Look what the cat dragged home?’ Well, that’s what’s going through my mind right now. This is our fucking asset?”
“Keep your mouth shut, Ian,” Paris snapped. “Mr. Blackbook, what can we do to make you comfortable?”
“Clothes.”
“Yes, you want clothing. Any type?”
“Your type.”
“A skirt?” Ian asked.
“No, I mean their type, like Obsidian and Turquoise.”
Ian squinted at Kevin for a moment. “You want to parade around here in what is essentially a bathing suit?”
“No, I mean...”
“...Ah, you want something an exemplar would wear, correct?” asked Paris.
“Yes,” Kevin said, his eyes lighting up. “I’ve given up on my previous life. I want to fit in better, and I don’t want, um, everyone to see my ass.” He turned to show them what he meant. “It’s a little cold, too.”
Ian snorted again, and Paris stared at Kevin for an uncomfortably long time. “Okay, okay. We’ll get you an outfit. Besides, you’ll need it tomorrow.”
“What’s happening tomorrow?” asked Kevin.
“We’re done here,” Paris told Turquoise, looking away from the former advisor. “Call one of our teleporters and wait for them in the other room.”
