Love, Lust and Explosives

Thank you, Monk, for the incouragement.

Chapter Two: A Little Quality Time

Violet didn’t remember much of anything. In her mind, her past was mostly a blank. Subconsciously, she knew that she wanted it that way. Something bad had happened to her. That much she knew or rather felt. It was something so bad, that it had changed everything for her. Now her daily existance was like a crazy warped dream. Whenever her mental guard was down, when she was relaxed, the memories tried to surface. When that happened, she would desperately beat them down by distracting her mind with random ideas and images. Her thoughts jumped from one thing to another, seemingly without rhyme or reason, in an attempt to keep her brain unfocused.

She was aware this wasn’t normal. She was aware she had some serious problems. However, she couldn’t and wouldn’t dwell on this. Underneath it all, she felt the painful sting of rage and terror. These feelings were what had gotten her into trouble. Now, she was locked up. The events that led up to her incarceration were foggy. She had learned that it was better that way. What was that smell? It was like beef stew? And maybe, menthol. She was worried and relieved at the same time. Man, I need to cut my toenails. She started singing quietly to herself, the first song that entered her mind, and if she didn‘t know the words, she made them up - it was calming.

That morning, the Joker was awakened by the sound of his neighbor singing - some strange tune he didn’t recognize with words that he didn’t understand. It was sort-of pleasant, and he found himself standing close to the door listening. At intervals, he heard her stop and talk softly, laughing quietly to herself

He found out from one of “his” guards, that her name was Violet (“Nice name,” he thought. It sounded like “violent“, and he liked that). The story circulating through the asylum was out of the ordinary. She had been picked up late at night after setting several structures throughout the city of Gotham on fire. The first was a Starbuck’s, then a factory that manufactured bras, control garments and pantyhose and finally, a research lab.

When they found her, she was sitting outside the research lab barefooted. She was laughing hysterically and crying, all while singing Johnny Cash‘s “Burning Ring of Fire“.. Now, this wasn’t your everyday, ordinary girl. He was told that when the cops showed up, she didn’t put up a fight and no one was killed or injured in the fires. "Oh well, can't win 'em all." he thought with a smirk.

It was evening now. They had been fed; at least he thought it had been food. Again, he could hear his neighbor whistling a jaunty little tune. Now seemed like a good time to get acquainted.

“You certainly sound cheer-ful, considering you’re locked up in an asylum for the crim-i-nally insane, Miss-uh.” offered the Joker with a sarcastic chuckle.

She stopped mid-song and cocked her head toward the slot in her cell door. She allowed herself to think about what had just been said. Cheerful was something she didn’t believe she had felt in a long time. Actually, she felt scared, nervous, angry, confused, slightly bored and, now that she thought about it; a little bit horney. “Man, I hate that that word,” She thought. “There’s got to be a better one.”

“Hmm…I may be full of something…I don’t think it’s cheer.” She finally replied before adding, “Oh…uh…good morning...mister?”

“Good? OK whatever you say. May I ask your name, neighbor?” The Joker inquired (even though he knew the answer already) as he sat spraddle-legged on the cold dirty floor by his door.

“Violet,” she responded flatly. She paused and added under her breath, “Yeah…Violet.”

“Well…Violet, It’s amusing to meet you. The talk around the “hos-pi-tal” is that you’re a fire-bug. I must say, I hope its true.”

There was a long pause, and he began to think the conversation was over. He shrugged, not particularly surprised. As he was turning away from his door, he caught her answer.

“I…I think flame-thrower feels more accurate….What’s your name, uh…sir?

“You can call me Mr. Stitches,” he giggled

“What do you do….Mr. Stitches?” she asked as if this was a name one heard everyday.

“Do?” he asked, with a burst of wild laughter.

“I guess I meant, ‘did‘….you know, for a living.”

“Butcher, baker, candlestick-maker…what difference does it make-uh?”

“It really doesn’t. I just thought that was the sort of thing one is expected to ask, when making polite conversation.” she responded with a smile in her voice.

This elicited another screech of laughter. “Polite, polite? Ha, ha ha… Don’t believe I’ve ever been accused of that. ‘Polite‘, just wastes a lot of precious time in my experience. I’d say it’s just about impossible to offend me anyway, but you’re welcome to try, my dear.”

It was her turn to laugh. It felt good, if foreign.

“I think I like you, Mr. Stitches. Is that an odd thing to say? I like the way you say things, and your laugh… it makes me want to…. “She hummed a little before speaking again. “I found the end of the rainbow once. I just remembered that. And you know where it was?”

“Hmm?” he offered, genuinely curious.

“The parking lot of Wall-mart. What do you think that means, Mr. Stitches? The more I think about it….makes me sad…no not really sad…mad…I think I might like to see it burn…..” She groaned, a deep, pure sound, somewhere between pleasure and anguish. The sound went straight to the Joker’s groin igniting a little flame of its own. She snorted with surprise at herself and then there was silence.”

Before he had the chance to call to her, the sound of two guards stomping toward their cells, squelched his train of thought. Through the slot in his door, he watched them lead her down the hall. “Probably therapy” he thought, with an irritated grunt.

After their brief and beautifully unsettling chat, the Joker again found he felt oddly peaceful and dozed off on his lumpy bunk. He began to dream, dream of dark wavy hair trailing lightly down his bare chest, tickling his stomach and lower…. Just when things were getting good, some unknown noise pulled him from his lusty dreams. “Well, shit“. As he roused, he looked down at himself; his cock was apparently still dreaming.

Admiring the impressive (to his eyes anyway) erection straining the pants of his white hospital uniform, he concluded that he had been neglecting himself lately. He made the decision to spend a little quality time with himself and try to make it up to his poor lonely cock.

In a comical attempt at being romantic, he closed his eyes and slowly ran his right hand down his belly, to the band of his tented pants. He slid his hand beneath the waistband and ran his nimble fingers around the base of cock. “Well, well. What do we have here?” he mumbled to himself with a soft laugh.

He wrapped his hand firmly around the base and slowly stroked upward. He paused at the head and ran his index finger lightly around the tip in a lazy circle. He licked at his lips. It had been quite a while since he or anyone else had touched him this way, and while he was in the mood, he was determined to do a good job of it (a good hand-job, that is). He laughed aloud, despite himself. He ran his fingers along the sensitive underside of his shaft, delivering a delicious chill up his spine.

Enough play, time to get serious. He lifted his right hand to his scarred lips and ran his tongue up and down his palm and fingers, coating them with saliva. Again, he grasped the base of his now swollen and throbbing penis and pulled upwards with considerable force. The sensation drew a soft groan from his lips. He continued sliding his hand up and down his aching shaft with increasing speed. With his other hand, he fondled and squeezed his balls. His mind flitted from image to image, dark wavy hair, full round ass, leaping flames and rainbows? Ah well, best to just go with it, he decided.

His hips decided to get into the action, thrusting upwards to meet his fist as it slammed down. By now, he was nearing the abyss, moaning and gasping erratically. With one final powerful thrust and a growl of blissful release, he came, his thick hot seed spilling down over his hands. Still panting, he sat up, exhaled loudly and used his pillowcase to clean himself up. “Just imagine the damage I could do if actually had a little help.” he though to himself with a chuckle.


Whew, never wrote a wanking scene before. Hope its not too lame.