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The Joker's Concubine	By : Jokersconcubine Category: DC Verse Comics > Batman Views: 17805 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own the Batman series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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It often occurred to Desiree in the weeks that followed that redemption was a very strange thing. She had always assumed that it was acquired through sacrifice, the abstaining of fleshy pleasures, and achieving a higher morality. It had never occurred to her in the past that perhaps the exact opposite was true. The more she lived by the Joker’s motto and freed herself from all the old tethers of law and order, the more unencumbered she found her soul.

She found a liberty in eschewing the values of good and evil that she had never fathomed could exist. What had once seemed a complex web of virtues and vices became exceedingly simple when she just accepted that the only authority she had to answer to was her own conscience.

There was a time when the casual murder of 3 men would have affected her in some profound manner. She would have felt responsible, and then guilty afterward. She would have wondered if it was related in some way to that putrescence she had always felt nesting within her. She would have wondered if their deaths were her fault. She saw all these thoughts and emotions that she might have once felt as though she were looking down upon some other being, some strange and childish person whom she couldn’t possibly begin to understand. She felt that her association with the Joker had changed her on some very basic, chemical level. It almost made her feel a stranger in her own skin, reliving memories of something seen only from a vast distance. She had watched the murder of his men with the interest one gives to the killing of rats or roaches. The only thought she gave to the ordeal was to wonder why had done it.

He was impulsive, and might have done it merely for sport. Desiree suspected that he himself didn’t know why he had done it. But she couldn’t forget the look on his face when he had spotted her lying soiled upon the futon. She had seen something in those dark eyes that was unfamiliar to her.

Could it be? she wondered. Is it possible that perhaps…he found himself…No, no. Couldn’t be. Yet her mind kept returning to the concept. He had been in a pleasant frame of mind when he left, but had returned in an agitated and volatile state. Was someone like the Joker prone to something so simple, so basic, as…jealousy?

A smile tingled at the corner of her lips. Jealousy. It was possible. Oh, he’d never admit it, not even to himself. It would mean that he valued something, and that simply wouldn’t fit into his mindset. A mad man is still a man…and a man is protective over what is his.

And if he was jealous of her, what else did that indicate? She knew it might mean nothing more than possessiveness, however, it might also mean something more. It might even mean that the man was starting to have some semblance of feelings for her, in his own bizarre manner.

She knew that it was dangerous to ascribe these concepts to a man such as he. It was like anthropomorphizing the actions of a rabid dog. But ultimately, she was a woman. And women, in her opinion, were often slaves to their hearts,. The notion that he might somehow care for her in some eccentric way was too appealing for her to let go of.

There was no doubt that she cared for him. It didn’t matter how he treated her or what taboo acts he made her perform. Every moment she spent enjoying his violence, his sadism, only made her feel one step closer to the perfect, amoral person she aspired to one day be. She knew that she loved him for this. She loved him for taking the beat up, injured person she had once been and leading her into being something that was so much more. Every touch of his hands or his lips, every word spoken to her, resonated within her and bound her further and further to him.

Was it so unreasonable to hope that he returned her feelings? Granted, he wasn’t the sort of man who’d bring her wine and roses and profess his undying love. He wouldn’t be able to stomach something so banal, but that didn't mean his feelings didn't exist.

Just as a cat may scratch his human companion in a fit of annoyance and then later lie purring in their lap, maybe the Joker had merely never acquired the skills to show his feelings in a way that others might appreciate.

And so she did not feel degraded or humiliated when he led her further into her own demented sexuality. She felt it was an expression of the volatile feelings he must surely have for her. Maybe he didn’t exactly understand what he was experiencing, but he had to be feeling something. A man simply didn’t spend that much time in the company of a woman he wasn’t having sex with unless he cared for her.

She gave pause at that thought…Through all their experiences, he had yet to engage her in intercourse. He pleasured her, touched her, sometimes forced her into brief oral service…but he had yet to orgasm in her presence since that night when she had revealed her secret past to him.

This confounded and confused her. He was a man of action, of instincts…why wasn’t he acting on them? What kind of man doesn’t want to consummate his desires? She spent entire days trying to wrap herself around his mindset, but to no avail. She wondered if perhaps there was something intimate about the act that he found offsetting. He wasn’t the type of man to get close to someone, and perhaps he felt sex would break down a barrier between the two of them which he kept rigidly in place. She even pondered whether it might be because of the feelings he had for her. Could it be that for him the “act of love” was tantamount to admitting his emotions? That concept frustrated her, while warming her heart at the same time.

Desiree lay naked on her bed, these thoughts rumbling through her mind in an endless loop. His schedule was sporadic at best, and she lived in constant anticipation of his arrival. It had been far too long this time, and the nights of waiting and wondering had begun to take a toll. She wanted sexual release and satisfaction but more so she only wanted his time and attention. Every second in his presence, every moment spent trembling beneath his hands reminded her of the new identity that she had assumed. She felt stronger, more vibrant after his visits.

Her thoughts flitted towards their most recent encounters. As time went on, their sexual experiences had become stranger and more extreme. They tested the boundaries of what any woman should be expected to find pleasure in. Yet she did. She found it for him. It was magical to watch his eyes light up with mirth after she had performed some especially peculiar act of distorted kink.

She began running her hands down her lusting body as memories played through her mind like a homemade porn tape retrieved from an asylum for the deviant. Her face flushed with the remembrances.

She saw things in flashes of strobe lights within her vision, still frozen moments snapping behind her eyes like photographs. She watched perverse tableaux that would have sent others screaming from the room. The scenes captivated her and lent passion to her self-pleasure.

The slide-show flipped from frame to frame: Spread-eagle on the bed, smeared with her own menstrual blood, a sanguineous red grin spreading from cheek to cheek and him, jovially finger-painting words and symbols across the canvass of her flesh, including a vividly red “Ha!” over her tight stomach.

Her hands rubbed and pinched at her pink nipples, caressing softly and then squeezing painfully. She murmured from the pleasure, missing him, wanting him, remembering him…

Him, sitting on the sofa, calmly watching the television and observing her out of the corner of his eye in a nonchalant, almost bored manner as she committed an unmentionable act with his favorite Rottweiler in the opposite corner of the room.

One slender hand worked its way down her torso to knead itself against her wet lips. She scraped her fingernails down the scarred “J” that graced her mound, and groaned aloud to the empty room.

The shower, on her knees with the hot water beating down on her as she recovered from a shuddering orgasm. She looked up at him, mouth open at his command, and did not flinch as her face and tongue were splashed with his own acrid, yellow waste.

Her fingers pressed gently against her clit, teasing it with the lightest of touches. Her mind was filled with him, bursting with the emotions he had engendered in her, replete with the satisfaction of the changes he had wrought in her once-fragile psyche. She pulled a toy from the bedside drawer. It had become a fast friend in between his visits. She slipped it deep inside her.

Cold metal of a gun, slick with her wetness as it slid painfully into her. His pleased giggle as he hurt her with it, fucking her brutally, taunting her as he threatened to pull the trigger if she came too soon.

She rubbed her clit as she fucked herself with the slick toy. If she tried hard, she could pretend it was him, him inside her and giving her what she was desperate for. She pushed herself to a fulfilling climax, screaming aloud to the empty room. When the last contractions of her lust had ceased, she lay sweaty and breathless on the blanket.. Staring at the ceiling, she began to weep. Tears of angst and wanting, of missing him and wishing for him to be at her side. They streamed down her face as she began to cry in earnest, choking back sobs full of passion for him.

She rolled over to her side, and buried her wet face against her arms. Her body shook with the force of her wanting need. She slowly opened her eyes, and saw the room through a blurred, misty vision.

A single thought cut across her pain, like a knife slicing through skin: I love him.
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The Joker's Concubine