Friday, October 30. 9:30ish.
I say “9:30ish”, but really I knew it was 9:23 pm, just like it was the last time I pushed back the gauntlet on my glove to check my watch. The TV above the bar said 9:27. God – David was such a flake.
I nursed the ice-water remainders in the tumbler on the bartop before me. It was the last of my third, which was really more than I liked to drink by myself. But I didn’t have anything else to do while I waited. Beside, I was agitated, and I really needed to relax. I didn’t want to waste the scene around me.
I turned away from the bar to look out over the darkened room. Captain America, Wolverine (claws retracted, thankfully), and someone who I think was supposed to be The Maxx were flirting with a pair of Wonder Women just a few feet away. About a half-dozen X-men, mostly with the new movie costumes, were lining up so Spiderman could get a group picture. There was another Spiderman holding hands with Black Cat (Mary Jane would be pissed!) over by the phones, and the Joker and Aquaman seemed to have struck up a friendly conversation on the other side of the bar.
Since it was the annual Comsplay-get together (Comics … Cosplay … Get it? All right, I know, but I didn’t make it up), and tickets were expensive enough that a couple hundred of us together closed out the Gracchus room at Caesar’s Palace, the costumes were really pretty good. I probably knew half of the people there – at least by their alts on the comsplay board – but I didn’t recognize anyone. Most of the costumes had masks, and hell if even Joker’s facepaint didn’t make him impossible for me to recognize.
As much as I liked costumes, there was something about masks that made me uneasy – something about not being able to recognize someone else when they might recognize you. Call it a quirk, but my favorite time of year made me a wallflower. By myself, alone inside my costume, I was shy and bashful. Now if David had been there – just having that one other safe person to make introductions, to share jokes instead of to be the joke…
He wasn’t answering his cellphone, either. Damnit.
I glanced up from my phone at the clack-clacking of high-heels on the wooden floor. Catwoman was walking up to the bar; she brushed by me and slid into a stool around the corner from mine. Of course, there were probably four or five Catwomen out in the crowd (thankfully, none of the Patience Phillips variety), but this one was the real deal, in my book. Her costume was great – a little interpretive, but without breaking canon.
Obviously she had the coiled up black bullwhip. Beneath arm-length gloves and thigh-high boots of soft black leather, she wore a purple catsuit – probably lycra, I think – and she filled it out beautifully. She wasn’t the tall, lean, statuesque type, though her boots did give her an extra three or four inches, but she could have been a model in the 50’s, back when reasonable men liked their women curvy. Let me just say that she was ‘voluptuous’. But the suit looked like it was made to fit her – the spread of her shoulders, the volume of her ass and thighs were sculpted by the suit, but not squeezed. She had the matching purple cowl with cat ears, and long, wavy black hair flowing out the back.
She was black, with heavy-lidded eyes darkened by black makeup, and full lips covered with a deep, wet-looking red. Of course, I couldn’t recognize her.
I realized I was staring when I saw her staring back at me. But she was smiling, looking me over. Costume parties tend to encourage an appreciative stare.
I was thinking over the last month’s posts to remember if anyone had said they were coming as Catwoman, to see if I could put a screen name to a face, when she spoke. “Buy a girrl a drink, Boy Wonder?” Her voice was surprisingly deep, yet still very feminine. She was playing up her part and purring her ‘r’s.
After what was probably an awkward pause, I came to life and nodded. “Yeah. Sure.” I beckoned to a bartender.
He approached our corner of the bar and smiled. A Las Vegas bartender doubtlessly saw many strange things, but he seemed amused by the league of superheroes. “What will it be?”
I glanced over to Catwoman, who wanted a, “White Rrrussian.” I decided then that her voice was incredibly sexy. Her words weren’t slow, but they were deliberately enunciated – clearly formed in her luscious mouth.
“Another Jack and Coke for me.”
“Right.” It only took him a few moments to produce the drinks, but that was enough time for Catwoman and I to make eye contact again. My eyes hurriedly flicked away, but when I glanced back, hers hadn’t. After two or three seconds, we were in a staring match, and after ten, I was grinning stupidly. Her smile was somewhat more feral – a little more competitive. She intended to win. I focused on one eye, than another, willing myself not to slip down to her lips. She was cheating, moistening them with the tip of her pink tongue. I blinked away as the bartender slapped down his little square napkins and placed the drinks. “A White Russian – err, Cream for the Catwoman; Jack and Coke – so, Birdseed… for Robin. Twelve dollars.”
I fished my Visa out of the yellow pocket on my utility belt and handed it over to the bartender, who disappeared around the island.
“So that’s what you keep in your utility belt.” Catwoman smirked at me, probably still enjoying her victory. “I always wondered. Do you mind if I take a look?” I shrugged and slid off the stool, but she remained seated and beckoned with a crooked finger. I noticed that the fingertips of her gloves were fitted with hard, sharpened points, and thought to commend her on the detail.
The bartender came back with the receipt just as I made it around the corner, so while I signed the bill and worked out the tip, Catwoman poked through my belt.
“It’s good quality.” She opened and closed the magnetic snaps, rifled through the stash in each, ran her claws along the seams. “Good fit. Did you make it yourself?”
“I put the belt together, but not the suit.” I nodded my thanks to the bartender.
“It’s good. Sit herrre.” She slid the bullwhip off the barstool next to her and stroked the cushion with her claws. While I sat, she eyed me and took a long sip from her sweaty tumbler.
“No, thank you. I don’t have one of your spiffy belts. You don’t want to know where I have to keep my card.”
“Maybe I do…”
“Ah!” She raised a hand to her chest in mock affront while her eyes twinkled. “What kind of manners has Bats been teaching you? Well, I suppose they’re not that bad, if you’ll buy a drink for a thirsty lady.”
I cleared my throat, filled my voice with my most earnest Dick Grayson impersonation. “I must, confess, Catwoman, that my motives were not entirely chivalrous. You see, as long as you’re here drinking with me, I know you’re not out burgling the priceless funerary statue of Bast, or a fleet of black Catillacs. I’m fighting crime.”
“Not very well, Boy Wonder. I’ve already stolen something from you.” She flashed a wicked grin, and produced my driver’s license.
“Hey…” It was a weak protest on my part. My license had been in the same belt pocket as my credit cards. They were still in place. Right? I felt to be sure.
“Don’t worry, Dick Grrrayson. Your secret identity is safe with me. Though I should probably write down the address for Wayne Manor.”
I took a quick drink to stifle my anxiety over her handling the ID. I told myself to calm down. It was probably harmless enough. “Since you know my identity now, what’s yours?”
“Oh – but didn’t Bats tell you? I’m Selina Kyle.” She flashed me a wide smile, and her eyes scanned over my license. “Not so much a ‘Boy’ Wonder, I see. A Young Man Wonder. A Legal Wonder. But you still look cute in tights.” She pinched a fold in the green spandex on my hip and let it snap back. “Do you have to shave to wear these?”
“No… I already waxed for swim training.”
“Ahh… how delightful. I’d love to see that.”
“No… your bare legs.”
I blinked the conversation into a dead end before I thought of a reply. We both sipped our drinks for a minute before she began again.
“So why are you sitting here, Rrrobin, instead of out mingling with the Teen Titans?”
“Actually, I’m waiting for Batman.”
“He should have been here a few hours ago. I don’t know what’s keeping him.” I had forgotten about David.
“You’ve tried the batphone, I suppose?”
“No answer. The worst part of it all is that he reserved our room for tonight. Being Halloween in Las Vegas, I’m probably going to have to drive all the way to State Line to find an another vacancy.”
“For what it’s worth, I’ve always found Batman to be downright unrrreliable.”
“What about you? Are you waiting for Batman, too?”
“Batgirl, actually. But she seems to have found something more interesting under Supergirl’s skirt. Out of the closet and into the cave, you know.”
“So I heard.”
“So that puts me back out on the hunt again.”
She placed a gloved hand on my arm, on the bare skin above my elbow. “And, lucky for me, I’ve found an unsuspecting little birdy.”
God! She had been teasing me ever since she arrived at the bar, but I was uncomfortably aroused now. Tights and Underoos aren’t the most freeing environment. Or the most discrete.
“You, know, Dick – I hope you don’t mind if I call you ‘Dick’.” She had caught my hand with her other, and was lightly stroking the soft flesh inside my elbow with the tips of her claws. “I once asked myself, ‘Do cats eat bats? Or do bats eat cats?’ Of course, that’s a silly question, since the answer is clearly that cats eat bats. After all, bats are simply rats with wings. But I’m asking myself tonight why I’d want to eat a dirty little rat when I could just have a delicious little birdy instead? What do you think?”
Gaahhh, is what I thought, while I watched her tongue slicker over bright white teeth, and I tried to shift my hips to give my erection some breathing room. It was going to be a real embarrassment if I moved out from beneath the bar now. Fortunately, my brain still had some blood, and it produced a comprehensible response. “…Sounds like a dilemma.”
“Oh, no. Not at all. The answer is very easy. You see, Rrrobin – I can solve both of our problems. Since Batman has abandoned you to my evil clutches, I’ll just drag you back home with me. You’ll have a birdcage for the night, and I’ll have something to play with. Isn’t it just perrrfect?”
I had to admit that it was, but she continued. “Give me your hands.”
I held them out to her, and in one quick move she pulled a ziptie from the top of her boot and flicked it around my gloved wrists, expertly threading it and pulling it just tight enough to keep it in place, but clearly loose enough that I could wriggle a hand free if I wished. Another followed around my thumbs. “Of course, since Rrrobin is good and upright, he couldn’t just saunter back to Catwoman’s lair. He has to be compelled. So you just give me a wink while the Justice League here isn’t looking, and we can do this properly.”
At that she dipped again into the top of her boot and produced a purple silk scarf, which she wrapped around my mouth as a gag. While she tied it in place, she murmured in my ear. “I came prepared to abduct Batgirl, but this will do for the tenderer half of the Dynamic Duo, too.”
The bartender was already watching, but once we stood away from the bar, everyone else began to take notice. Spiderman appeared so he could chortle at my dilemma and take pictures. Catwoman played it up, first throwing the coils over her whip over my neck, then tossing it back as though she would strike. I did my best to show fear in my eyes, but I was loving it.
We left the Gracchus room with a send-off, including applause and whistles from a couple of the other Catwomen, the Joker, and a Riddler. My Selina pushed me ahead of her like a proper war trophy, while she proudly strutted behind.
But once we’d left the Comsplay crowd behind, she kept me ahead of her, guiding me with nudges from her re-coiled whip. I glanced back questioningly, but she continued, navigating down the hall toward the floor of the casino. I was starting to get a little nervous. It was one thing to play like this in front of friends, even if you didn’t recognize them; it was quite another in front of strangers. I was embarrassed enough when I came into the casino a few hours back, skirting the periphery of the floor to meet the fewest eyes.
I stopped at the edge of the gaming floor. We were at the beginning of the long walkway that ran by the pits, by the ‘Win the Corvette’ slots, through the busiest part of the floor. Her hand rested between my shoulder blades, and I glanced back my objection – this time I didn’t have to fake the fear. She was grinning wickedly. “Move it, Rrrobin.” She gave me a little push, and I stumbled out on the gaming floor.
God! I was lucky my erection had faded –embarrassment was better than cold water for that. The Robin suit, thick as the green tights were, felt awfully revealing. I suppose Superman wouldn’t have it any better – he’s just as bright, just as clingy, and has an even dopier cape, but he’s Superman. Women swoon for Superman. They snicker at Robin. I was pretty sure they were snickering now.
I was still hesitating, leaning back against her, setting my heels and stumbling forward ahead of her steady advance. There were hundreds of eyes on us; the casino staff were the worst. Then I heard her deep voice just behind my ear. It wasn’t a whisper, but it was low enough to reach only me. “If it’s any relief, everyone is staring at me. You’re only my accessory. Just struggle a little, put up a fight, and you won’t feel so vulnerable. And if that doesn’t help, just remember that these are waiting for you on the other side.” Her breasts pressed against my back. Her nipples were hard enough to be felt through my cape, sliding beneath my shoulder blades, and for a minute I was in danger of filling out my tights again.
She nudged me again with the butt of her whip, and I marched.
She was right.
Even for Vegas – even on Halloween weekend, with the Fetishists filling up the Stardust for their Fantasy Ball – everyone stared. But their eyes only glanced over me, then fixed a few feet behind. I clenched my jaw, set my shoulders, and shrugged off the next nudge of her whip; she responded with a hiss and a firm shove to my back. When I set my heels again, it was defiance – she nestled right up behind me, whispered “Gooood,” in my ear, and dead-kneed me. When I ducked the coils of her whip, she swatted with her claws; one way or the other, I usually caught a light smack. Once I lunged forward, as if to break away. But the pits were crowded, and I really didn’t want to escape. Her fingers just snagged the back of my arm, and the coils of her whip went around my neck. There were laughs and hoots as she force-marched me past the Corvette.
I didn’t realize that we weren’t heading for the elevators until we were almost at the front entrance. She caught my elbow and pulled me out the door.
An October night in Vegas is crisp. My first deep breath chilled my throat and set what light arm-hair I had on end. The cold air was enough to encourage me to be brisk, but she had a better plan to urge me on.
The first time her whip cracked, about two feet to my left, I just about jumped out of skin. I stopped dead still, then turned to look back; she had that same wicked grin again when she motioned forward with her head. The whip cracked again to my right, and I hopped to it.
We drew a crowd on Las Vegas Boulevard. She loved it. She hissed at me, hissed at the crowd, swished her ass as surely as if it had a tail, and cracked her whip whenever she had enough room. A group of tourists each filming the Bellagio’s water show turned as we walked by to record us instead. (Well, her, really, just like she said. It wasn’t my perky nipples poking through my costume that caught their eye.) She shoved me forward again, clawed the space around her clear, and showed us all – especially me – just how good she was with the whip. The air popped and cracked around my head and shoulders. Several times I felt the wind of it past my ear; each time I flinched or tried to dodge out of the way, she laughed. The tourists applauded while I grimaced. She must have stopped, because suddenly I did too, yanked back to her by a tug on my cape.
She held me tightly – one arm and the whip wrapped around my waist – and I realized that she was stronger than I had given her credit for. Not as strong as me, of course. Well, probably not…. Her arm didn’t budge at my faux struggles, and those thighs – there was enough power in those flanks to crack walnuts. Or a head. In her heels, and with her cowl ears and that mane of black hair, she had half an inch on me. Caught in that hug, I felt overpowered.
Flashes were going off all around us. She grabbed my chin between a few clawed fingers and angled my cheek up and toward her. To the audible satisfaction of the crowd, she slathered her tongue up the side my face, from the top of my neck to the corner of my eye, and again up my jawline to my ear, which she nuzzled. “Struggle a little more, Rrrobin, or they might think you like it!”
I do like it! Through the gag, it came out more as, “I-oo ryk-ih!”
She laughed and pushed me away, sending me skipping again with a crack of the whip.
It’s a long walk from Caesar’s Palace to the Luxor, which is where we eventually arrived. Technically it’s about a block and a half, but a Las Vegas block has got to be at least a mile. I jogged most of the way, stumbling ahead of her, ducking from the occasional crack of the whip. Her lashes never struck, but I never managed not to jump when I heard it snap. She strode behind me at a clipped, determined pace, but we stopped frequently, whenever enough people wanted to take a picture commemorating my capture, or when she just wanted to maintain her arousal.
Actually, she did a good job of keeping us both excited over the 45 minutes or so the walk took. The tips of her claws on the back of my neck, her hot breath on my cheek, a brush of her nipples against my arm, a flick of her tongue over my lips – any of these were enough to keep me unbalanced, on the hazy boundary between public embarrassment and the constant glowing, heart-beating hope that she would take the scene further. But her low, sultry voice and the libidinous threats it uttered were what really threatened to stretch the crotch in my costume and bring the unwelcome attention.
There was this one time, on the corner between New York, New York and Excalibur, when she started dry-humping the back of my leg while moaning “Rrrobin…” again and again in my ear… Somewhere there is a frat-boy with about 40 great shots of what she did to me. I want them back.
For her part, I realized two things seemed to turn her on – her ability to arouse me (which was half of a dangerous positive feedback loop), and her ability to control me. Whether she did the ordering with the whip, grabbing hands, or with sternly spoken commands, my obedience made her more likely to follow with an ear nibble or a whispered idea of what new dirty thing she might do to me, the details of which she was just as likely not to share – it was enough that I knew that she had an idea. But it wasn’t enough that I simply comply – she wanted a stallion, not a gelding – so the more I pretended to struggle or, towards the end, did struggle, the more her wicked smile widened.
At last we were at the Luxor, inside and heading along the outside of the gaming floor, directly for the elevator bank. By this time, I didn’t even notice the half-dozen other people waiting for a lift with us; I was happy to see her re-coiling her whip.
Once we were in the elevator car, she untied the gag. But before I even had a chance to work my jaw, she slid it up over my mask, covering my eyes, and tugged the knot tight again. I rubbed the corners of my mouth with the back of my wrists until she hissed and slapped them away from my face, taking over the job herself. One fingertip, claw arched back, circled the outside of my lips, then pushed its way inside. Wet with my saliva, the fingertip slid over the top of my cheek and along the outer profile of my ear, then slipped in the middle to deposit the spit. While I jerked away from the wet willy, her other hand found its way to my ass, slid down, down, then beneath and between my cheeks. A quick, firm poke wedged the tights up into place. I grunted. Whatever the other people on the elevator thought about her prank, they thought it in silence.
Several dings later, it was our turn to leave the elevator. My Catwoman prodded me, then put a hand on my shoulder and pushed me forward. “Don’t worry, Dickie boy,” she purred. “I won’t run you into any walls. I don’t want to bruise you just yet.”
Let me just say – as much as masks agitate me, a blindfold gives me the sweats. My false sense of echolocation gave me the impression that walls were only inches away, that we were walking into sharp edges. I stumbled forward, and found it impossible to walk straight. Even with her hand firmly on my shoulders, claws not quite digging in, I would begin to list to one side, then careen back on track as she corrected. I’m sure the alcohol from earlier hadn’t helped. It didn’t take long at all for me to lose complete track of where we were, how many times we’d turned, or how far we worked.
At last, after several sharp turns at the end and a long walk that could have just as easily put us right back next to the elevator, she stopped me. I heard the swipe of a card and a click as the door opened, and then I was being steered inside a room. Ever so hesitantly I crept before here, step-feeling my way into the room until she demanded that I stop and turn to the left. One firm push against my chest and I stumbled backwards; the back of my legs struck something soft, and I fell back flatly onto a bed.
“Put your hands over your head and move up on the bed, Rrrobin.” Her sonorous voice filled the room in a way I’d never experienced in the open spaces of the casino and Las Vegas Boulevard. It had a tone of maturity, or gravitas. I did as asked, and when my hands hit the headboard fixed to the wall behind me, I stopped.
She knelt on the bed, then; I felt her weight on the end of the bed, then shifting from side to side as she crawled up my length, boots brushing against the outsides of my legs. She stopped when I felt her face directly over mine. Her breath filled my nostrils each time I inhaled. Her elbows sank into the pillow on either side of my head, and the tips of her claws played over my cheeks, the sides of my neck, behind my ears.
“Open your mouth, just a little.” She leaned down further, pressing down on me, and closed her mouth over mine. Her kiss was warm, and at first not hard. Her lips engulfed mine, then lightly caught each of my upper and lower lips in turn. When I lifted my head back against her, returning the kiss, she clapped a gloved hand over my forehead an pushed me down, holding me in place. Then she kissed me again, and this time her tongue brushed over my lips before teasingly darting between them. She kept her hand on my head as she pushed deeper, turning her face at an angle so our mouths could lock and give her better access. Her other hand started at my ribs while she forced her tongue around the gap between my lips and my teeth, then wandered down to my hips and along the outer curve of my butt. She broke from the kiss to breathe and bite my chin, and her free hand slid back up my side, up my arm to grab my fisted hands. Restraining me thus, she plunged back into the kiss, thrusting with her tongue and spooning her saliva into my mouth. Her thumb caught the ziptie around my wrists, she lifted it up the headboard to catch it on some hook waiting there above my head.
Then she leaned back, sitting on my pelvis, and used the muscles in her legs to squeeze her buttocks and slide her cheeks forward and back a few inches, creating a friction that brought my erection back to life in a hurry.
“Mmmm…” Her purr sent the blood rushing to all parts of my body. “Well, Rrrobin, there are a few things I’ve got to take care of before this Pussy has a Dick for dinner. You fairly trapped now, by all the rrrules pertaining to superheroes. You’re my captive, tied up in my secret lair, awaiting a terrible fate, without much hope of escape, and I’m going to step out to do some evil deeds.”
Her fingers went back to the ziptie and she tested to see how tight it was. “But I should let you in on a little secret, even before the next episode. It really wouldn’t take a crack detective to escape this trap. If you want to leave while I’m gone, you can. If there’s a fire, you’re not restrained. You should be able to pull your hands free pretty easily, and I’m sure a clever boy like you can find your way to the elevator. But I warn you, and this is the trap: if you even try to escape, I won’t stop you. Not right now. If I come back and find you watching TV, or doing anything other than lying right here, just like this, we’ll shake hands and call it a night, and I’ll have to hunt down Batgirl after all.”
She leaned back down, so her breath rolled over my face again. It smelled of some kind of mint or licorice, I realized. “But if you haven’t escaped my trap, then… well… Let’s just say you won’t be going anywhere after that, and cats do like to play with their food. You will have a long night ahead of you. …Okay. Don’t say anything. Just nod that you understand. Good.”
She crawled back off me, and her weight left the bed. I felt her fingers at my waste, unbuckling the utility belt, and I arched my back so she could slide it out from beneath me. That was a relief – one of the pockets had been pressing uncomfortably into my back. I heard her shuffling some things at the foot of the bed, then she walked out of the bedroom. A moment later the door to the hall shut behind her.
I didn’t know if I had thirty minutes or five to do it, but I really had to pee.
I had tried to disturb as little as possible. I slid my hands off the hook on the headboard and raised the blindfold just enough to see underneath, but not enough to loosen the knot. The room was dark, but my eyes had been closed long enough that the LEDs on the clock and TV and a few other red and green dots around the room showed me the way out of the bedroom, and through the suite to the bathroom. By the time I’d made it back to the bed and gently rolled into the depression I’d made earlier, replaced the blindfold and found the hook, the toilet noise had subsided and I was sighing with bladder comfort. When you really have to go, a good toilet break can be almost orgasmic.
Then I waited.
I might have dozed here and there, for a minute or two, but at last the outer door to the suite opened. I heard the light pad of feet crossing through the suite, approaching the bedroom. The footsteps stopped at the door, and I heard purring – not some onomatopoetic attempt at the word or the titillating rolling of ‘R’s, but a husky, rasping breath in the back of a woman’s throat – it sounded more feral than silly. The feet continued, and the bed sagged beneath a sudden pounce. A booted calf and thigh slid over my stomach, hips settled over mine, the warm breath returned to my face, and Catwoman’s deep voice uttered a matter-of-fact, “Meow.”
“What have you been doing?” The question was accusatory. “You’ve been out of the bed. Haven’t you?”
I didn’t know how she knew, but I had no doubt that she did. There was no sense in lying about it. I nodded.
She rolled off the bed. Disappointment dripped from her words. “I’ll cut the bonds. Forgive me if I don’t take off your blindfold – I don’t want you to see my room number and bring Batman back.”
“Wait!” I didn’t mean it to sound desperate, but I think it did. “Wait. I just really had to go to the bathroom. Too much to drink, you know? I didn’t see anything, or touch anything.” Not the row of latex boots I saw by the door, or the half-dozen whips hanging in the coat closet. Certainly not the half-open bag by the side of the bed.
I could feel her standing there, just beyond my feet. Then she walked around and sat beside me. “Hmmm. I see.” She ran a clawed glove through my hair and grabbed a lock. Her voice was terse, but still thoughtful. “I think you’re telling the truth.” She paused for a few moments, then continued. “I should have to prepared you better. I forgive you.”
I sighed, releasing a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, and I thought she might have, too.
She unhooked my hands again, crossed them and rehooked them, and bid me, “Roll over.”
I did so, turning to uncross my forearms, and scooted back to the center of bed. Then,
Whack! Whack, whack whack!
“Stop! What are you doing?” My ass cheeks smarted. I’d had my share of spankings as a kid, but honestly, I didn’t remember it hurting this much. She wasn’t using her hand; it was something more like a strap or a stick. I clenched and unclenched, trying to wince away the pain. “I thought you’d forgiven me!”
“Oh, I have. That’s why you’re still here. But I can’t have my captive thinking it’s okay to rethink any of my commands, even if he’s sure he has a better idea. Now if you’d simply told me earlier that you had to use the potty before I left, we wouldn’t be in this mess, would we? That part was your fault. I might have the whip, but you still have to communicate.” Her weight shifted on the bed, like she’d lifted her hand again.
I tried to communicate. “I’m not into pain.”
“Neither am I, Robin.” I noticed the way she said the name. “I’m into pleasure – my own. But we’re only at four of ten lashes, so if we’re going to get past this to the part I like, you’re going to have to bite your little tongue and take six more, okay?”
I nodded. The earlier sharp pain had already faded to heat, and I really didn’t want to leave. I pushed my head into the pillow and gritted my teeth.
Whack! Whack! Whack!
Oh yeah… that’s how much it hurt.
.. Whack! …Whack! … Whack!
She drew out the last few strokes. I thought it was because she liked to see me flinch, to see my ass tighten in anticipation. Once she was done, after she’d put away whatever she was striking me with, she massaged my cheeks through the tights. I winced and tried to roll away. God, it hurt. It throbbed like my heart was down there, pumping pain into my flesh.
She chuckled and leaned over me to untie the blindfold.
It didn’t make much of a difference, since I was face down on the bed in a dark room, but if I twisted my neck all the way, I could just make out her shadow behind me.
“Now, Rrrobin, let’s start over. I’d love to just rrrip off that costume of yours and rrrape you – make a man out of a boy – but it’s such a nice costume. It would be a shame. So let’s try to take it slowly, shall we?”
She tugged my boots off, one at a time; they fell to the side of the bed.
“Socks?” She tisked as she peeled them off; they were thrown into a corner. “Never wear socks to bed with a lady, Rrrobin. I guess Bruce isn’t such a good influence after all.”
Her voice was low and sultry again, her ‘R’s rolling deliciously at the back of her mouth. She cat-crawled up my back and reached over my shoulders to loosen the yellow and black cape. “What is it with you heroes and your capes?” she hissed from right behind my ear. “At least I have the courtesy to put my tail on display.” The cape sailed away from the bed. “Better… Now let’s see yours.” For a moment she caught the top of my ear between her teeth, rolling the cartilage between thick wet lips, before her claws slid down my flanks to my beltline – which was loose without the belt – and then beneath the leggings to bare skin. She followed her hands down my body, letting her nipples slide over the curve of my back. Now kneeling on either side of my calves, she yanked down the tights in one clean pull.
I bit my lip, and she purred. “Mmm. That’s better. Commando.” (Actually, I think she had just taken the briefs with the tights.) The tips of her claws traced lightly around my ass, stopping to circle the rising red welts. She leaned down again, grasping my inner thigh with one hand and placing the other firmly in the small of my back. I felt a light dab on one of the wheals, and then a cool breeze. I jerked against the touch of her tongue, but her hands were well-placed to keep me still. More dabs followed, along with more cool, wet relief to the burning lines.
The relief didn’t last more than a second, so I twisted my neck the other way to she what she was doing. I couldn’t make out much beneath the long drape of her hair, which had fallen around her shoulders, but when I saw the tilt of her head and felt the long, slick stripe up my cheek, I knew. She glanced up to see me watching, and I saw a flash of a smile beneath her mask – a flash of bared teeth. Throwing her hair back so I could watch, she bathed my entire ass with her tongue, in long, smooth strokes like a painter. Her eyes flicked between mine and my skin, and her smile stuck as she watched me in return, watched me anticipate each lap.
She moved down my thighs then, paying less meticulous attention to complete coverage as she danced from spot to spot, delighted to find them as hairless as I had promised. What she didn’t lick, she kissed with wet, open mouthed kisses, or bit, gnawing hard enough to leave teeth marks but no bruises. She used her claws to stroke or tease, but also to pinch or scratch whenever I seemed too comfortable, whenever my moans were too faint to reach her ears.
She was training me to be vocal, I realized – rewarding me with kisses for honest, audible responses, and punishing me when I retreated into the pleasure of the tongue bath.
She also liked it when I squirmed, and it didn’t take her very long to figure out how to have me wriggling like a worm on a hook.
You might have guessed that I hadn’t done anything like this before. You might also have surmised that I governed my backside with a strict exit-only policy, which seemed to be both natural and proper. So you can imagine how I felt when, while she was nibbling on the inside of my knees, one gloved hand snaked up inside my thighs, and a couple fingers slid between my cheeks. My entire body stiffened, and I said something along the lines of, “Wha – ahh!”
Of course, if I wanted her to stop, I should have simply ignored it. Her interest in the flesh of my legs waned for a moment while she concentrated on her fingers, focused on spreading my cheeks to trace the inside of the crack with a clawtip, to run circles around my anus. Then she lightly pressed, directly on my anus, teasing like she might push right in. I was overwhelmed by the conflict of the sensation – the unfamiliarity, the reflex to pull away, and the surprising pleasure. She chuckled. I would never admit to it, but she would probably tell you I pushed back just a little. She fell back into my legs, nipping and biting, but that glove stayed high on my thigh, threatening to find its way back inside.
Before she’d finished with my legs, her tongue went dry. She didn’t stop to swallow or gather saliva; she simply continued with a dry tongue, and when her mouth produced more lubrication, she let it drip from her lips, then lapped it back up and spread it around.
Once she was satisfied that I was completely shaved (she checked down to my toes, and yes I was thorough), she slid back up my legs, running her hands between them to spread them apart. She had long since freed my ankles from the bunched-up tights, which were somewhere on the floor. Her face followed her hands, her tongue skipping over my skin. She stopped at the top of the angle, her face right at a level to inspect between my thighs. I thought she might be about to play with my ass again, a thought which both scared and excited me, but her hands went lower, beneath me, to grab what was there. “Mmm.” Her glove slid down the base of my penis, which was eager again for the attention, but it continued down to gently squeeze my balls. Rolling them gingerly between her thumb and fingers, she lowered her head and brought her lips down to the tight skin. Her tongue flickered in and out. “A tasty treat. I’ll save it for later.”
She slid up further, settling her breasts on my buttocks as she pushed the red shirt up over my shoulders, covering my head. “Ahhh….” Her claws hooked over the meat on my shoulders, then she drug them all the way down, causing me to arch and doubtlessly leaving eight red strips. “Now this makes me hungry.” Her tongue, once again dripping wet, wandered up my spine from between my shoulderblades to the back of my neck, where she bit. Her low voice teased, “Tastes like chicken.” I felt her squirming on top of me, then she shuddered with delight. “No more playing. It’s time for this pussy to eat!”
I realized how sharp her nails really were when she caught the ziptie still around my wrist with one claw and snapped it. “On your back again – quickly. Take off that silly red shirt and spread those arms and legs!”
I hurried to obey while she kneeled beside me; as I rolled to my back, she tied the first foot to a strap she had pulled up from beneath the bed – somehow it was fastened tightly under there. Similar straps awaited my hands and other foot. Once I was restrained, spread-eagle (spread-Rrrobin, she said), she stood over me and hooked her claws into her own costume. I quickly learned that what I thought had been decorative piping was the outline of a separate bikini over her catsuit – once removed, heavy breasts hung free. Her nipples were dark and delightfully wrinkled. It took a little more struggle and twisting on her part to find the snap that released the bottom piece of the bikini, baring a cut-out around her crotch.
Once unencumbered, and with the purple pieces flung into a far corner, she dropped to her knees, straddling my neck. The arch beneath the shin and toes of her boots fit neatly over my shoulders; she only had to lean back on her heels to keep me firmly in place. She was breathing heavily with excitement, causing her breasts to heave above my head. Her eyes flashed, her lips were curled in an uncontrolled smile, and her fingers wiggled slightly while she decided just how to begin. Then her thighs closed around my cheeks, and the heat and scent of her body washed over mouth and nose. I licked my lips. Her fingers ran through my hair and clenched, finding natural handles. “I showed you what I can do with my tongue, Rrrobin – now show me what you can do.”
I can’t promise to recall every detail of what happened over the next half-hour, though the memory itself is incredibly vibrant in my mind.
I remember her scent and taste vividly – they were musky, almost oily, a little bitter and salty. At first, each touch of my tongue, each whiff, was a surprise to my senses, they were so strong. But she was addicting; once I’d lapped away the residue of her earlier rut, tasting only the bare flesh beneath, I strained my neck searching for more. She pulled away and I stretched after her. I was eager to set her juices flowing, to taste that tang.
I clearly remember she was trimmed, but not shaven. Her hair was wiry, tightly curled close to the skin, but it didn’t chafe. It trapped her flavor and my saliva, and tickled my nostrils whenever she lowered herself over my tongue.
At first she kneeled above me, hovering an inch or so over my face, while I explored her. Internet advice flashed vaguely through my brain: don’t go straight for the clit. Tease her first.
But she was impatient – when I flicked around her labia, she firmly steered my head with a glove directly back into her pussy.
So I followed her lead and nuzzled in. My tongue pushed, first flicking, then thrusting deeper, as far as I could stick it in. She wanted more. When I lifted my head her hands slipped behind it, grabbing it for leverage, and she pressed down and began grinding back and forth.
She released my head, and I fell back into the pillow, gasping. My neck and chest was slick with sweat. I looked up, past her two ripe breasts, to see her flashing eyes. Her mouth hung open, accommodating her heavy breaths. She glanced down, and for a moment our eyes locked through our masks. Her claws scraped over my cheeks, and she chortled, or moaned, or both.
Then she settled back over me, resting her arms against the headboard for support. She sat on her heels, but I lifted my face to trace between her outer and inner lips with the tip of my tongue, then drew them into my mouth for light suck and lip-nibble. It was too much for her – her heels slipped out and her full weight fell on me. One glove caught my forehead, cupping it tightly to hold me in place while she squirmed against my mouth. Her clit found the knob of my nose and she mashed into it, spreading herself over my upper lip and the tip of my tongue.
I remember my view through the wide ‘V’ of her thighs, the rotating, jerking motions of her hips, the way she gripped her breasts so tightly and dug her claws into her own skin. Her tongue rolled over her lips, not to keep them wet, but in some kind of vicarious fantasy of what I’d do to her. I tried to match her flicks with my own, and was rewarded with a vice-grip as her thighs tried to squeeze my head as tightly as she did her breasts. Her breath caught. After a long, tense moment, she exhaled, her thighs relaxed, and her head lolled down. Her convulsions had shifted her mask, so she nudged it back in place with a knuckle as she began her slow, forceful gyrations again. With her vision unobstructed, our eyes locked together.
She seemed to delight in my reactions to each thrust of her hips, her moans, her nibbled lips. Her grindings were thoughtful, experimental, like she was searching for new ways to fit us together. She judged her success as much by my expression as her throbbing pleasure. When I gasped and my eyes blinked with relief after she finally released me from minutes of suffocating thigh-kneading, she laughed aloud, low but melodically.
I remember the aching stiffness in my cock. It ebbed between bobbing aright, hard and yearning, as I was aroused by the soft skin of her inner thigh, the way she shuddered when I suddenly thrust my tongue into her, the raspy surprised cursing and vulgar demands for more, and the promise of the pussy I now knew so intimately, then falling limp against my thigh while she satisfied her own needs and left me straining against the empty air. I couldn’t even twist over for friction against the sheets; the best I could do was squeeze my thighs against the growing ache in my balls from their lack of release.
She was somewhere between two and twenty orgasms – her insistent moaning, quick gasps and thrusts, and relentless urging of clawed gloves in my hair left me with no idea where – when she finally rolled off me. She left one leather boot sprawled across my chest. “God, Robin!” She took a deep breath, clutching her ribs, and let it out in a shuddering sigh. “God, Robin,” she repeated, “are you still alive down there?” She slipped a claw under her mask to wipe away the sweat collecting there. My own hair was slicked to my face with a mixture of sweat and her juices; she brushed it from my forehead, then leaned down for a gentle kiss. She pressed in again, and her tongue flicked between my lips, brushing my teeth before it slid out of my mouth. She slicked it over my cheek and painted saliva around the bottom profile of my mask before lashing over my mask to my eye, which I quickly shut. She sucked lightly at my eyelid, cupping her thick lips lightly in the bowl beneath my brown, then crossed over my nose to keep the other eye company.
“I taste good, don’t I.”
“No, Robin – I’m fishing for a compliment here. Tell me.”
“You taste… I’ll remember your taste for years, and it will still make me horny. It makes my mouth water. It makes me want to bury my face between your legs.”
“Mmm… Good.” She opened my mouth with a finger, catching my lower lip between two clawtips to pull it open. I thought she was going to kiss me again, but her face just hung over mine, inches away. Her breath was hot, and smelled slightly of her own juices. But her hand slide down my chest and circled my cock, which was once again hard and begging for her touch. “But it’s not really about Robin eating out the Catwoman, is it? It’s about the Cat eating the birdie. Don’t watch.”
She left her right hand draped over my face, blocking my view, while she swung her leg off my stomach leaned over me. A hard nipple slid over my taut skin, then pressed down when she settled into place. She made a tight ring around the base of my penis with what felt like a thumb and finger; while she held me thusly, the soft, wet touch of her lips and tongue dabbed and lapped up the shaft.
Then she shifted over me again, and her voice was right in my ear. “If you cum before I tell you to, I won’t be the one swallowing it. Good enough for me, good enough for you, right? So I hope you have some self-control. Don’t watch.” She tugged my mask up a half inch or so, leaving me with a great view of the headboard, then took both hands and her mouth down to tease me.
Tease me she did; while she rolled my balls between her fingers or slid her claws up the inside of my thighs or reached beneath to threaten the resistance of my asshole again (this time, combined with her other attention, I gasped), she took just the head of my cock into her mouth and squeezed or lightly sucked, daring me to let go.
How can I describe the battle I fought with myself? Is it enough to say that I arched and bucked, fighting my restraints until I cramped in both a calf and a finger? That I felt like I was holding back an entire flood of churning heat with the tenuous obedience of one lazy muscle somewhere deep in my pelvis? That I begged her to stop, then not to, that I sobbed I was going to explode (she threatened against it between sloppy mouthfuls) and somehow I managed to contain myself while her lips and tongue insisted all the harder that I shouldn’t? If she’d ever released that tight ring grip she’d kept at the base of my…
But she had? I caught a glimpse of her the bottom edge of the mask, pawing quickly through the nightstand while I still fought the broiling froth inside of me. Still that tight grip kept me from release. But I could see both of her gloves?
It was only a moment, though, before she was back on the bed, and rolling a condom down over my cock. Then she crouched on the bed, and, positioning the head with one hand, slid down, slowly, slowly down over it. I couldn’t see her face, but I could tell from the small jerks of her shoulders that she’d rubbed against something good along the way. Then she reached all the way to the base, and she slouched for a moment, taking long, slow breaths.
Once she’d gathered her strength, she began moving over my cock the same way she had on my face, grinding against the shaft, squeezing and sliding in jerky figure eights. She slapped my mask back down my face so I could watch her arch exultantly, so I could appreciate the curves of her silhouette. She cupped her breasts and began kneading them again before she realized she could make better use of me now. Falling down over my chest, leaning forward to keep her own chest above my head, she positioned a nipple over my open mouth. She didn’t have to pull me to her – I was straining to close my lips over her areola, to flick the erect teat with my tongue – but once I was in place she caught the back of my neck and held me there. Her deep voice, breathless and ragged, directed me to suckle, to wet my lips, to intensify the pressure.
“More…. Harder! Yes! There!”
She reached up awkwardly, already off-balance, to break my hands free. She had no intention of letting me free of her nipples (she’d already moved me to the other), so pulled me up with her while she loosened the ties on each of my wrists.
Once I was free, her arms crossed behind my neck and she leaned back, sitting us both upright. My hand quickly found their way up her hips, her sides, to cup and squeeze her breasts, which now bounced against my cheeks. She was moaning and riding up and down now, squeezing tightly with every part of her body each time slid up, like she was trying to milk me. Still, somehow, I held.
As her moans became louder, she started to be a bit more rough, forcing me into her cleavage, squeezing her thighs around my hips like she wanted to crack them, biting randomly at my ears or forehead, when suddenly she reached beneath her, found the base of my penis, and with trembling fingers clicked something free. The blood rushed from my face as my whole body shuddered and I came, with such unexpected force that I nearly collapsed beneath her. I could feel my cock swelling and throbbing to fill the space inside her. She was shuddering too, her claws digging into the flesh of my back, but I barely noticed. I’d been so long at the edge of orgasm that it had lost its sharp pain; I was completely unprepared for the flood of hot euphoria that washed through me.
I said something like, “Gahhhh…d”
Finally she slid off me, and I fell back limply to the bed. I barely registered when she re-tied my hands and left for a few minutes, or when she came back to remove the condom and clean me with a warm washcloth.
Maybe twenty minutes later she was laying on the bed beside me, stroking my hair and smiling with unrestrained satisfaction. Her lipstick was fresh, and she smelled more like some night flower than sex.
I’m sure my face bore nothing less than adoration. I was just starting to chill where the moisture left by washcloth was evaporating.
“Well, Rrrobin,” she purred, “I think you’re about spent for the night. But I’ve got one more big one left in me that I don’t want to waste. And while I’ve worked you pretty thoroughly, what kind of a Catwoman would I be if I didn’t take just a little bit of your boyish innocence?”
“What do you want, Selina?”
“Tsk, tsk, Dick. No more names. Selina and Dick might be lovers. But not Catwoman and Robin.”
“What do you mean? …Catwoman?”
“Catwoman – she rrrapes poor little Robin.”
My eyes widened, and I think my mouth might have fallen open when I saw what she had placed on the bed between us: a curved, black dildo, attached to straps and a harness.
She covered my mouth with her glove, then, sliding her fingers in and spreading my teeth apart, pushed a hard rubber ball on a flat strap – something like an oversized evil pacifier – into place and buckled the harness behind my head.
“No more talking from you. You can cry or whimper if you’d like – I may like that – but it hardly seems fitting from Batman’s protégé.”
My eyes described my fear to her while she polished the dildo between the fingers and thumb of her glove, bringing the exaggerated veins to a polish. I shook my head vigorously, and I could tell from her low chuckle that she really enjoyed my anxiety.
“Robin, Rrrobin – I thought you and Bats liked it in the bum? That’s the rrrumor. But maybe just not from women, though?” She laughed now. “You forgot already – this isn’t about your pain, it’s about my pleasure. I have no interest in fucking your little ass; not this time, anyway. Maybe later. Now hold still.” She caught my chin firmly in her palm slid the dildo through a metal ring on the outside of the gag. The ring snapped tightly into place, and the black cock sprung up, away from face. “There. Now I can rrreally fuck with your head.”
I sighed in relief and relaxed muscled I hadn’t even realized were knotted. But that’s because I didn’t know what I was in for.
She grabbed the base of the dildo and started polishing it with her other hand again. The gag and dildo were a very effective handle – she could move my head however she liked; my neck was not prepared to offer resistance to that kind of leverage. She turned me to the side, and leaned down to slacker her tongue along the length of the black rubber. Her eyes stayed on mine while she sucked and kissed the rubber cock, fellating it with a hungry vigor. Of course I felt nothing, but I saw everything, which was her point. I began squirming.
“Some people don’t like the taste of rubber,” she told me between licks, “but I love it. I was so pleased when Bats changed to a latex kit.” She chomped on the dildo and shook it between her teeth like a shark, wagging my head along with it.
Pushing off my chest, she sat on the edge of the bed and dug back into the nightstand. At the edge of my eyesite, I watched her squeeze gobs of clear liquid into the palm of her glove, then rub it into her still-bare crotch. With her hand still cupping her pussy, both caressing it and keeping the lube inside, she once again climbed up onto the bed. This time she stood, a boot sinking into the mattress to either side of me. Her knees clenched and unclenched. She pushed her middle fingers up inside, wetting the walls of her vagina and encouraging her own lubrication to flow again. She bit her lip, and for a moment I thought she was going to just stand over me and masturbate where I could watch.
But once she was ready she crouched down to her heels, slowly swallowing the dildo with her pussy, mere inches from my eyes. The rubber cock was tight inside her; my tongue and jaw fought back against her weight as she kept pressing down. But I quickly realized that my neck would lose any fight to support her, so I let her push me down into the pillow, which folded up on either side of my face.
With half her weight on either my jaw or on my forehead, where she grasped with both palms, she began to fuck the dildo. Not like she had my cock, taking it all the way in and grinding, but sliding up and down, in and out. My head bobbed up and down with her as she moved, not really of my accord, but when I relaxed completely she growled, grabbed my hair, and began yanking me up and down against her.
I had no fight in me, so she fucked me, or fucked on me. Since she’d orgasmed so many times already, she didn’t seem to be in any hurry. Her hips rocked back and forth, rolled up and down, while I could do nothing but watch and try to hold still for her. Occasionally she glanced down, smiling at my wide eyes, but mostly her neck and shoulders arched back and she drifted in her own world.
This might sound anti-climactic, but it was a little frustrating for me. Granted, her gasps and groans were electrifying, and the sight of her pussy slurping up the rubber should have been enough to make me hard, if I had anything left to work with. But between the smell, and the sight of her so close, and the motion of her hips, I just wanted to taste her again. And there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t even squeeze her butt, which quivered so ripely, nearby but out of reach. I could only watch.
At last, after a long, satisfied sigh, she slid off the dildo and knelt over me, sitting on my collarbone. She paused only a moment before laying back, reclining on my stomach, and stretching her legs up over my head against the wall. The muscles in her meaty thighs, which were still clad in the sweat-damp purple catsuit, knotted and released as she worked through them. My cock suddenly bobbed as blood rushed to it, trying to bring back to life.
“Ahh… I’m so sore…” She massaged the tops of her thighs, pushing the ache she must have felt down toward her knees. “Next time I break in a superhero, he’s doing all the work.”
We lay together on the bed for quite awhile, just talking. She unstrapped my legs and bid me bend my knees so she could sit on my stomach and lounge back against my thighs. She told me things about herself. Not where she lived, or what she did – she still never broke character – but I learned about her coffee obsession, some of her favorite songs, some of the things she had thought about doing to me that night – a few of which she wouldn’t describe in detail – they were for “next time”.
She used the toes and heels of her boots to play with the flesh of my face, and as she spoke she idly swirled her claws over my skin. Her low voice stayed mostly to a whisper, like we were conspirators sharing secrets, and the huskiness of the whisper, the smiles I heard but couldn’t see, made even her most casual comments sensual. But while we became more intimate, we never so much as kissed.
Later she untied me entirely, and after we had both stripped to our bare bodies (even as far as removing our masks, after we jokingly swore not to peek), after she’d reduced the bed to a single, airy sheet, we spooned. It wasn’t like I’d ever spooned before – she stayed behind me and curved to fit my bottom. She slipped an arm beneath my elbow and pressed her breasts against my back, then slid a leg between mine.
Thus enfolded, with her lips and a cheek lying against my shoulder, she asked me to recount the night for her – what I liked, what scared me – what I thought was going to happen. I think that, normally, talking about sex in such detail would have left me embarrassed and halting, but I felt so close to her now that it was easy just to talk. I barely worried about how I sounded – how what I said would make me look, or if I would say something she wouldn’t agree with. I just talked. Her guiding questions trickled down to “Mm-hmms” and barely audible murmurs, and then she was asleep.
With the replay of the night fresh in my head, I couldn’t sleep – or I didn’t think so. I was awash in that happy glow that warms you from the stomach out. I didn’t want to move an inch, to risk her rolling away from the press of our flesh. I smiled, and I must have slipped into sleep.
God! I still remember that night so well, as long as it’s been. I can’t believe that I could write so much, but I still haven’t even gotten to what happened the next morning. Or the next day – what a day! But I suppose that will have to be another tale, saved for another night. I have to go dream about that first night in the birdcage.