Dead Bats Don't Bite

It was like he was paralyzed. He simply couldn’t move.

Maybe it was the wine…

Maybe it was Joker’s gloved hand sliding torturous, slow up and down his clothed erection…

Or maybe it was Joker’s face.

In that moment the Joker almost had a serene look upon that scarred, maddened face of his… Bruce witnessed it in it’s brief lifetime in the dimly lit stillness of the bedroom. Eyelids hanging, the smeared black makeup making the eyes burn, his lips closed, the reddened scars seeming to push his mouth out, make it puffy, fuckable…

Oh, he wasted no time. Joker pulled the material down and stuck out that wicked tongue, went to slip it along the underside of Bruce’s thick cock…

He was hard… it was so hard it was almost throbbing…

What was he doing??

Bruce reacted then. Kicking his legs out he went to grab the madman’s shoulders and push him off of him, yelling at the same time—“Get off of me!”

Joker was ready for him, grabbed those wrists, pushed himself on top of him. The buttons on his lapel were cold, they grazed against Bruce Wayne’s naked skin, made his skin prickle. He slammed his hips down upon Bruce’s naked erection, the rough texture of his trousers encasing his own hard-on. The pressure was rough, controlled. He was like a calculating animal. Like a dog.

Joker smirked down at his adversary, let out a cheerful whistle of accomplishment. “Ready to quit so soon in the game, Mister Wayne? I thought you were… enjoying the attention.”

Bruce swung his head. He didn’t want to believe it. He was overpowered. He felt raped, ashamed, miserable. He was bursting at the seams. His mind swam like he was still drunk, his cock twitched, his body flattened against the Joker’s. What had the bastard done to him?

“You drugged me,” Bruce gasped.

“Now why would I do a thing like that?” A thrust came from Joker’s narrow hips, pressing their cocks together.

Bruce let out a torrent of ragged breaths. He was losing it. He was starting to sweat, unwravel, his skin was so hot…

Joker rolled his hips again, causing an electric collision of sensation. He slid one hand from Bruce’s wrist, trailed it up the toned, lanky arm, started to play a gloved fingertip across Bruce’s lips.

“I could… just rape you, you know… I could make you scream, Bat.”

Bruce’s heart spasmed in his chest. He had lost it now, eyes squeezed shut… his hand, recently free from Joker’s fierce grip, went to grab… something. Something to ground himself. Something so he wouldn’t go completely insane.

What he could up grabbing was Joker’s thigh, pulling the leg inward, rubbing his hips deeper into his own.

Joker squealed, “What’s that now…” With that he grabbed either side of Bruce’s head, started to pull on his sweat-slicked hair, pull at the sides of his face, distorting it, grinning. “Yes, yes, there, there… look how well you’re catching on.” He started to pump his hips, rhythmically this time, drawing that electric spasm out of Bruce each time.

He dared to open his eyes then. Joker had a look of perverse triumph on his face, but he was also flushed, caught up in the game of power, wearing an erotic limp sneer. Buttons on his shirt had come undone, revealing slick, unmarked white flesh.

Without thinking, Bruce’s rough hand climbed up Joker’s thigh, giving his buttock a brutal squeeze. Joker reacted with a “hmmph”, stopped the clashing of his hips for a moment…

It was.. instinctual.

He didn’t know, didn’t care to avoid the situation any more. That path was long since lost. Now it was about something else… control.

He had grabbed Joker by the throat and thrown him down on the bed. He hooked his fingers into the pretty silver-buttoned collar of his elaborate shirt… such a shame for his tailor, really… and ripped it open with a gorgeous swing. The buttons flew with a delicious whisper, and then a fragile clatter on the wooden floor, combined with the sound of the Joker gasping, not like a clown for once, but like a man… Bruce then got his hands onto the belt on Joker’s trousers, and pulled it until it snapped from the loops… Joker was tittering with erratic gasps at this point.

He tugged the trousers off. There was some resistance. A few punches solved this. Finally he was straddling him, had his knees on Joker’s hands. Their naked legs were tangled. He shoved his fingers against Joker’s plump, wet red lips, grabbing the side of his face harshly.

“Fucking suck on them.”

With his face pinched, the Joker’s eyebrows were lifted, and tentatively he let Bruce’s fingertips slide inside his mouth… his tongue circled them, then he began to suck, like…

“Like a good boy.” He muttered around the obtrusive fingers. Even with his mouth full, he was still grinning…

“Shut up.” Bruce slapped him hard across the face. His breath came out his nose. His hips bounced. Bruce crammed his fingers down into Joker’s throat, until he gagged a little, then gagged some more, and mumbled somewhat, wiggling his wrists that were trapped under persistent, heavy knees.

He yanked his hand out then, started to choke Joker, just because he liked the feeling of the man’s throat compressing against his palm.

He grabbed himself, his fingers covered in spit. It slicked over his organ. Joker was hard too---but this wasn’t about mutual satisfaction. Joker wanted rape, he was going to get it.

He rubbed against Joker’s ass. Joker squirmed, gagged, then he stared at him with one eerie, open eye. He squeezed Joker’s neck harder… hated that eye looking at him, hated that breathless sneer on Joker’s face… he pushed in. There was at first, a spasm of Joker’s naked hips, which felt particularly good—it was good because now Joker’s eyes were closed. Now he was out of air.

He was raping him, he was on top of him, inside of him…

He had power over the Joker.

The thrusts became disoriented, wild. Bruce was breathing raggedly. His body was slipping, his hands slicked with sweat. Finally Joker got a sliver of air into his lungs, and he started to reel, moaning, gasping openly. He made no effort to hide that he was truly enjoying being ravaged, lapping with crazy lashes of his tongue at the blood that had pooled at the corner of his scarred mouth. His hands came free and he simply threw them behind his head, biting his lip, staring at Bruce, eating Bruce with his eyes.

He didn’t want to see, but he couldn’t turn away. Joker with his mouth hanging open, strings of green hair stuck to his face. He looked down, saw himself, he was /fucking him/. Saw Joker’s swollen cock rubbing against his belly. Realized numbly that Joker’s makeup had been mostly wiped from his face by various beatings, by sweat, by spit… he looked almost human.

Human except for his eyes.

Human except for his delighted squeals, each time Bruce grazed his insides.

He watched Joker bite the tip of his glove, slip it off one hand… somehow this was maddeningly erotic, seeing the slender lengths of Joker’s surprisingly clean fingers. The hand slid down, grasped his own member… the other reached up, grabbed Bruce by the hair.

“Don’t stop.” He said.

Bruce didn’t. He kept going, felt himself burning up, felt himself ready to burst. Joker was getting himself off, their bodies were pressed tightly against eachother, Bruce had his hand on Joker’s throat, choking him periodically… and of course, each time Joker gagged or whined or ran out of breath, he felt his world wobble…

Then he came. It was explosive. He squeezed Joker’s throat tightly, until he too, went rigid, his legs pressing tight at either side of Bruce’s body, cock spurting across his chest (and a bit onto his open coat), the only sound escaping his lips a few pathetic gasps for air.

When Bruce didn’t let go, Joker punched him. It was a friendly punch.

He sat back, flat on his ass, wiped blood and cum from his lips. That, that was deserved. He was still hot, trembling, he was still heavy and drunk on sex. He felt the walls sucking at him. He felt like he was going to fall through the floor.

Joker coughed loudly, rubbed at his throat. “You know what, Bat Man?”

“What.” Bruce was barely audible. He was staring at a glistening, peculiarly-shaped cumstain on the comforter.

Joker sat up, observing the damage to his prized pinstripe shirt. Then he put his fingers to his lips and sucked the cum off of them. He watched Bruce the entire time, hoping it would make him absurdly uncomfortable.

Finally Bruce glanced at him. His face flushed when he saw what Joker had turned into; pink-cheeked, wide-eyed, shagged and beaten—but that wasn’t the part that set Bruce Wayne’s stomach to tightening. It was that Joker had one finger at the corner of his lips, he was grinning, he was laughing, he was delighted.

He already had his pants on, whereas Bruce sat there, naked, overcome.

His footsteps clicked in the echoing bedroom.

Eventually he was standing right there next to him.

His soft, naked fingers fit themselves under Bruce’s chin, turned his face towards his.

His eyes were wide, insane. They locked Bruce into a commanding stare. They were depthless, gleaming black, they went soft only for a moment, when he said, in a deep, unfamiliar voice: “I understand you.”

He kissed him. His lips were warm, wet. The kiss was brief but firm, salty, masculine. Bruce didn’t have time to respond.

Joker was gone.

Just to make sure, Bruce turned his head to the floor, scanned it for the knife.

The knife was gone too.

And amazingly enough, so were Joker’s shirt buttons.

Clever bastard.

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