Intricate Circles

Intricate Circles

Doctor Jonathon Craine was very good at what he did. Very good indeed. His looks, with pale skin, shining eyes, and a corrupting mouth made simply for sex, helped that a great deal.
His patients knew, too, how to try and manipulate him, to use his apparent vulnerability to their advantage. But what they didn't know about Craine was that he couldn't be controlled. Not by them. Only one could…the Scarecrow. That one person, in essence Jonathon himself, could control everything.
Jonathon dreamed, at night, that Scarecrow would be there, standing his opposite in the mirror, staring back at him with black eyes, tattered around the edges. His own luminous blues were drowned, reflecting pitch-dark in the glass. Jonathon let his unbuttoned shirt slip off his shoulders, and let his hands reach out to touch the image of his thin undershirt.
His hands touched their matches, caressing the cool, smooth surface of the mirror. His fingers splayed out and curled, as if trying to grasp the reflection. Jonathon removed his belt, letting his trousers slide off his painfully thin hips. The cradles of his hips were cocked forward, curving his back slightly and pronouncing his slim chest.
In a moment of abandon, Jonathon snapped his leather belt against the mirror, making the air around it crack.
"Mmmnhh…oh, ohhh god…hurt me, help me, fuck me…oh god…" Craine moaned as he stroked himself; he was already hard from the crack of his belt on the mirror glass. He glanced up into Scarecrow's eyes, up through his own disheveled locks. Jonathon's mouth hung open slightly, his full, blush-colored lips parting for his gasps to flow through like water drops.
Jonathon stroked his erection carefully, almost bringing himself to climax before taking his hand away completely, savoring the almost painful loss of contact. His knees bent beneath him and he fell to the floor, as silky skin smoothed and slid over the hardened muscles of his thighs.
In some distant, disconnected part of him, Jonathon knew he looked like a whore, a cheap slut; that fact did not bother him at all, because he'd worked to look that way. He wanted to look back at himself with that wounded, passionate face. He knew it would hurt to see that, and he also knew it would most certainly arouse him. It always did.
He imagined Ducard, the bastard he was, standing over him, holding that cane…gods, that cane.
The man would likely use it to bruise, to hurt him, and there was nothing Jonathon wanted more from him. The thought of Ducard pushing and pulling that cane in and out of his willing mouth convulse, it came so clearly to him. He braced a hand against the glass in front of him, and Jonathon fisted his iron-hard cock, stroking faster and harder, wanting so badly to come, but unwilling to let the pleasure take him over that easily. He'd be damned if…if…ohhh. Oh gods, that was so good.
Craine doubled over, hanging his head low between his stomach and his mirror. Mere inches away from his achingly hard erection. His tongue lapped at the tip, drawing on the head of it, his wondrously clear brain going fuzzy at the feel. Jonathon's hands moved down to cup his balls, rubbing the soft skin behind them, pressing the knuckles in. Jolts of sensation flooded through him, and he took his cock full into his mouth, sucking on the length, still massaging his prostate. He moaned around his cock, the vibrations sending intricate circles of pleasure through him. They wound round him, tightening, binding, fulfilling him and his need. One last lick of his tongue upon his over sensitized organ sent him spiraling over the edge, dropping his head sideways, letting his seed slip out of his mouth, trailing down his lip and chin.
Gods that felt so good, to come like that, to the rhythm of his own tongue sucking him. He opened his eyes to the glass, looking upon his satisfied reflection, and saw the man watching him from the doorway.
The Batman is here.