A Life in DC
Chapter 2
He flipped her over, pinning her beneath him. A low, predatory chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Handle anything?" he growled, his hands roaming her curves possessively. "Selina, you passed out. *Multiple times*." He leaned in close, his voice a hot whisper against her ear. "Let's see if you can still say that when I'm done with you."
Instead of giving her what she clearly expected, he began to move down her body. He kissed a trail between her breasts, over the soft plane of her stomach, his tongue dipping into her navel. Her breath hitched, her hands coming up to tangle in his hair again. He settled between her thighs, pushing them open. The scent of her arousal was thick, intoxicating. He could see how wet she was, how ready. Her cunt was already glistening, a dark, slick promise against her pale skin.
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When he finally released her, she slumped back against the pillows, completely spent. She was a ruin, a beautiful, broken thing, covered in his cum, her lips swollen, her body marked by his possession. Vieri stood up, looking down at her. The hangover was gone. The self-pity was gone. All that remained was a raw, primal satisfaction. He had taken one of the most dangerous women in Gotham and claimed her completely. He had found a use for his useless, absurd asset. And it felt fucking good.
***
The Batcave was a cathedral of cold shadows and colder purpose. Monitors hummed with the silent, steady rhythm of Gotham's diseased heart, each screen a window into the city's myriad sins. But one screen held his attention. It was a private feed, a micro-camera he had managed to tag on Selina Kyle's suit during their chase last night, a precaution for tracking her to her lair. He hadn't expected this.
He hadn't expected her to find a lair so quickly, so brazenly. And he certainly hadn't expected *him*.
Oliviero Vieri. A GCPD patrolman. A ghost in the system, a man with a spotless but unremarkable record. Batman had run the face recognition an hour ago, the algorithm spitting out the file in seconds. A cop. A simple, flatfoot beat cop. The irony was a physical blow, a punch to the gut that was far more painful than any Croc could ever deliver.
On the main screen, the footage from last night played. He had watched it already, his jaw a hard, rigid line of stone. He had watched as Selina, his Selina, was thrown onto the couch. He had watched as Vieri exposed himself. And he had watched as her eyes, those sharp, defiant eyes, had widened in a mixture of shock and raw, undisguised lust.
The cock.
It was the focal point of his nightmare. A monstrous, humongous thing that seemed to defy biology, a weapon of flesh that was both absurd and terrifyingly real. He had seen Selina with men before—playboys, criminals, vigilantes. He knew her appetites. But this was different. This wasn't a game. This was a conquest.
He watched as Vieri entered her, as her body arched in a silent scream, as she passed out from the sheer overwhelming force of it. He had watched, his gloved hands clenched into fists so tight his gauntlets creaked, as the cop continued to fuck her unconscious body. A hot, foreign feeling had churned in his gut, a bitter, acidic cocktail of rage and a horrifying, unwilling fascination.
He had cum then. The first time. It had been a shameful, violent release, a betrayal of everything he stood for. He had gritted his teeth, his body shuddering in the cold, leather embrace of his suit, as he spilled himself into the darkness of the cave. He told himself it was a reaction to the stress, a biological response to the extreme stimuli. A lie. He knew it was a lie.
Now, he was watching the live feed. The morning light in Vieri's apartment was a cruel, unforgiving spotlight. He watched as Selina, the woman who had led him on a chase across rooftops, who had matched wits with him and spat in his face, was on her knees. He watched as she worshipped the cop's cock, her adoration so blatant, so absolute, that it felt like a personal attack. He saw the way she looked at Vieri, and he understood. He had lost.
The screen switched to the wall. Vieri, holding her as if she weighed nothing, pinning her and driving into her. Batman's eyes were glued to the point of their union, to the thick, veined shaft disappearing into her, to the way her body convulsed in orgasm. He could feel the phantom sensation, the memory of his own inadequate, four-inch erection, a pathetic, shriveled thing in comparison. The thought was a poison, eating away at the foundation of his identity. He was the Bat. He was fear. He was justice. But in this one, primal arena, he was nothing. He was a joke.
His hand moved almost of its own accord, sliding down the front of his suit, the armored plates parting with a soft hiss to reveal the hidden fastenings beneath. He freed himself, his own cock already hard, a traitorous response to the debauchery on the screen. He was pathetic. A voyeur in his own temple, masturbating to the woman he desired being utterly broken by another man.
He watched as Vieri carried her to the bed. He watched as he positioned her, her ass raised in the air, an offering. Batman's breath hitched. He knew what was coming. He had fantasized about it, in his darkest, most private moments. Taking Selina there, claiming her last bastion of defiance. But he never would. He was too controlled, too bound by his own rigid code.
Vieri had no such code.
He watched as the cop prepared her, his movements crude, primal. He watched as he pushed into her ass, the camera angle giving him a perfect, horrifying view of the impossible stretch. He could see the pain on Selina's face, even muffled by the pillow, and then the shift, the slow, mesmerizing transformation into pleasure. She was loving it. She was loving being destroyed.
Batman's hand moved faster, his strokes matching the brutal rhythm on the screen. He was a pathetic creature, hunched over in his command center, the epitome of control and discipline, reduced to this. A slave to his own base desires, a spectator to his own emasculation. He watched as Vieri came inside her ass, a thick, possessive release. And he came with him, a second, weaker, but no less shameful orgasm that left him feeling hollow, empty.
He didn't stop. He couldn't. The final act was about to begin. He watched as Vieri presented his soiled cock to Selina's lips. He watched as she hesitated, then opened her mouth, her submission complete. He watched as the cop fucked her face, his dirty words a low murmur in the cave's vast silence. "Taste your ass on my cock? You're loving it, aren't you?"
The words were a dagger in his heart. He saw the adoration in Selina's eyes, the worship. He saw the final, triumphant release, the third load that Vieri pumped down her throat. And as Selina's body went limp, a beautiful, broken thing, Batman came for the third time. A dry, painful shudder that wracked his body, leaving him gasping in the cold, silent darkness.
He slumped back in his chair, the evidence of his pathetic disgrace cooling on his suit. On the screen, Vieri stood over her, a picture of primal satisfaction. The hangover was gone. The self-pity was gone. All that remained was a raw, primal satisfaction.
Batman felt nothing but a cold, vast emptiness. He had lost her. Not to a rival, not to an enemy. He had lost her to a common cop with a god-sized cock. And in the sterile, silent heart of his sanctuary, surrounded by the tools of his war on crime, the Dark Knight had never felt more like a pathetic, helpless little boy.
***
The scent of sizzling garlic and onions eventually replaced the musky, sweat-and-sex-soaked air of the apartment. Vieri stood at the small stove in his boxers, a worn t-shirt thrown on, deftly stirring a pan of pasta sauce. The domesticity of the scene was absurd, a stark contrast to the primal, animalistic chaos that had consumed his living room just an hour before. Selina, wrapped in his bathrobe, sat at the small kitchen table, her legs tucked beneath her, watching him. The robe was too big for her, swallowing her small frame, making her look almost delicate. She held a mug of coffee in both hands, the warmth a small comfort against the lingering aches that were a testament to their morning.
"Good thing it's my day off," Vieri said, not turning around. He gestured with the wooden spoon towards the general direction of the couch and bedroom. "I think I'd need a hell of a sick note to explain this to the captain."
Selina let out a small, husky laugh. "I'm sure 'fucked a wanted fugitive into a coma' wouldn't fly in HR."
"Probably not," he grunted, draining the pasta and adding it to the sauce. The simple, rhythmic motions were calming, a return to a normalcy he hadn't realized he missed. He plated two generous portions and slid one in front of her before sitting down opposite.
They ate in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the clinking of forks against ceramic. Selina watched him, her gaze no longer just lustful, but deeply, intensely curious. She saw the way he moved, the easy confidence in his own space, the complete lack of awkwardness. This wasn't a man who was surprised by his own prowess; this was a man who was finally using a tool he'd long kept in its sheath.
"Alright," she said, putting her fork down. "I have to ask."
He looked up at her, chewing slowly. "Ask what?"
"Don't play dumb. You know what." Her eyes flicked down towards his lap, then back up to his face. "How? I've seen... a lot. In my line of work, you see everything. But you... you're a fucking anomaly, Vieri. Was it a lab accident? Did you piss off a wizard? What's the story?"
He took a long drink of water, his expression unreadable. For a moment, she thought he wouldn't answer. "It's just a thing, Selina. A genetic lottery ticket I didn't want and spent most of my life trying to hide."
"Bullied," she stated. It wasn't a question.
He gave a short, mirthless nod. "From the moment I hit the locker rooms. The 'freak,' the 'horse,' the 'donkey-dick.' It was a great way to make sure I never got close to anyone. Turns out, most girls are intimidated before they get a taste, and the ones who do... they tend to get a little obsessed. Most guys are just assholes about it." He shrugged, a gesture of profound, lifelong resignation. "So I hid it. I became a ghost. A flatfoot who kept his head down and didn't cause trouble. It was the most useless fucking thing in the world."
Selina reached across the table, her fingers brushing over his. Her touch was gentle, a stark contrast to the ferocity of their earlier coupling. "It's not useless," she said, her voice soft but firm. "It's not a tool, Vieri. It's just... you. And it's magnificent."
He pulled his hand back, a flicker of his old cynicism returning. "Look, this was... intense. Unbelievable. But I'm not going to tell anyone. My lips are sealed. You don't have to worry about me." He leaned back in his chair. "And if you want to slip out the window and we never see each other again, I get it. No hard feelings."
A slow, dangerous smile spread across Selina's face. "Oh, I'm not worried about you talking, Vieri. I'm worried about you *not* being here when I decide to come back." She leaned forward, the robe falling open slightly, giving him a glimpse of the bruises he'd left on her skin. "I very much mind the idea of never seeing this again. I'm a woman who collects beautiful, dangerous things. And you," she purred, "are the most beautiful and dangerous thing I've ever found. I'll be visiting. Occasionally."
He studied her face, searching for any sign of a lie, of a game. He found none. He saw only raw, genuine desire. "Sure," he said, the word coming out more relaxed than he intended. "My door's usually unlocked."
"Good." She finished her pasta, stood up, and stretched like a cat. "I need to freshen up. And then I have to go see a man about a jewel."
She disappeared into the bathroom, and he heard the sound of the shower. He cleaned up the plates, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. This was insane. He was harboring a fugitive, the city's most wanted cat burglar, who was now promising to return for more sex. It was the kind of thing that could get him fired, or killed.
When she emerged, she was back in her catsuit, the dark leather clinging to her curves like a second skin. She looked every bit the Catwoman, a dangerous, sleek predator. But as she walked towards the window, she stopped. She turned to him, her expression softening.
She didn't say a word. She simply dropped to her knees on the floor in front of him, her movements fluid and graceful. She reached for the waistband of his boxers and pulled them down, freeing his cock, which was already beginning to stir at the sight of her. It wasn't about sex anymore, not entirely. This was something else. A ritual. A benediction.
She leaned in and nuzzled her face against his semi-hard shaft, her cheek rubbing against the warm, heavy flesh like a kitten seeking affection. "I'm going to miss this," she whispered, her voice thick with a sincerity that startled him. "I'm going to miss *you*."
Vieri looked down at her, at the woman who had clawed her way through the gutters of Gotham, now on her knees before him, not in submission, but in worship. He felt a surge of power, but it wasn't cruel. It was warm, possessive. "You're going to be thinking about this cock while you're out there jumping across rooftops, aren't you, kitty?" he murmured, his voice a low, dirty rumble. "Thinking about how it felt in your ass, how it tasted in your mouth. You're going to get distracted, and you might fall."
"Maybe," she purred, taking the head into her mouth and sucking gently. "Or maybe I'll just be more motivated to get back here in one piece."
Her enthusiasm was breathtaking. She wasn't just sucking him off; she was making love to his cock with her mouth. Her tongue was everywhere, her lips soft and yielding, her hands stroking his thighs and balls with an adoring reverence. She took him deep, her throat relaxing to accommodate his size, her eyes locked on his the entire time. The sight of her, the Catwoman, on her knees, worshipping him with such abandon, was the most erotic thing he had ever seen.
He could feel the pressure building, a familiar, tightening heat. "That's it," he grunted, his hand tangling in her hair. "Show me how much you want it. Show me you'll be a good girl and come back."
Her response was a moan of pure, unadulterated need, and she doubled her efforts, her head bobbing faster, her movements more urgent. With a loud, guttural groan, he came, his hips bucking as he emptied himself into her eager, waiting mouth. She stayed with him, swallowing every pulse, her eyes never leaving his, a look of triumphant satisfaction on her face.
When he was finished, she licked him clean, a final, possessive act, then rose to her feet. She leaned in and gave him a deep, lingering kiss, allowing him to taste himself on her tongue.
"Goodbye, Vieri," she whispered, and then she was gone, slipping out the window and into the Gotham afternoon without a sound.
He stood there for a long time, staring at the empty window. He looked down at his own body, at the instrument that had brought him both shame and, now, this strange, electrifying connection. A wry, tired smile touched his lips. *I guess the joke finally had its moment,* he thought. *Its use.*
The next day, he was back in his patrol car, the stale coffee in his thermos tasting like every other day. He responded to a noise complaint, broke up a domestic dispute, and wrote a parking ticket. He was Oliviero Vieri, GCPD patrolman, a ghost in the machine. But as he drove through the grim, rain-slicked streets, he felt a subtle shift. The city was the same. The job was the same. But he wasn't. For the first time in a long time, he wasn't just a ghost. He was a ghost with a secret. And he was a man who was expecting a visitor.
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