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Marry The Knight	By : Ksennin Category: DC Verse Comics > Batman Views: 96985 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I do not own DC Comics, the Batman franchise, or any other Batman characters. I make no money from publishing this story.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
L'enfermer was the hottest restaurant in Gotham. The waiters were curt, the food was good but expensive, and the wine was also good—but more expensive. The reason it had succeeded where restaurants that fawned more over their patrons had not was because it was run by Lyle Bolton—the reformed Lock-Up. And he guaranteed the safety of every man, woman, and jewel that entered his restaurant, whether it be from laughing gas, killer plants, or Lazarus Pit bombs.
In the lobby of the skyscraper L'enfermer was located in, his specially trained waitstaff/guards carefully scanned everyone with a dinner reservation to the point of invasive procedures—something like the TSA with competency. Only afterward were guests admitted into the express elevator that took them to L'enfermer, with the elevator operator a black belt in karate.
Finally, they reached the roof of the building, where dining was done in individual ten square foot cubes of mirrored glass. Inside each cell, there was a passable view of the city, and no way to tell who or even if someone was inside one, aside from the muted noise of conversation (the cells not being truly soundproof; something Lyle was working on).
Bruce and Vicki submitted to the security measures, rode the elevator up making pleasant conversation with the operator, then were taken by the maître d’ and led to their cell, all the while having it explained to them how absolutely impenetrable the material of their dining area would be. For Bruce, who had seen Superman punch through battleships, it was a bit amusing.
Bruce wore an unremarkable business suit, coordinated mainly with the dull gleam of his wedding band, and with enough obvious expense and tailoring in it to make up for its unobtrusive style.
Vicki, on the other hand, wore the make-up of an expensive courtesan and a few pieces of jewelry that, if they hadn’t come from affluent admirers, had most definitely cost a great deal of her salary. Her fingernails were long—a change from Ivy and Harley, who kept theirs short for obvious reasons—and filed carefully to a common curve, painted the same dark red as the toenails visible at the end of her high heeled pumps.
She was a tall, slim girl, toned, but far more curved than muscular—another refreshing change from the women Bruce usually encountered, who threw a punch more often than they checked their make-up. And she was enough in tune with her sexuality for Bruce to take notice, in far more than a deductive sense. Her hips swung like a pendulum as she walked, and she made sure to walk in front of him on her way to the table.
Maybe it was his interludes with Harley and Ivy. For a while now, he’d been using sex not even as stress relief, but as another aspect of the mission. Now it seemed a lot harder to repress certain urges than it once had been.
They sat to read their menus. Vicki sat on the side of her chair, long legs crossed, and in full view of Bruce—not hidden under the tablecloth. Bruce tried to distract himself by paying careful attention to her hair—golden blonde, but dyed at some point. He recalled her being a redhead in the recent past. Her hair was feathered, though more in a European style than that of seventies nostalgia—clearly the work of a skilled coiffure. And she smelled heavily of perfume. Delicious perfume…
Bruce took out his smartphone to check if he had any messages. You never knew when the JLA might need you.
“Can I take your coat, madame?” asked the maître d’, who had never set foot in France in his life, but did know forty ways to kill someone with a three-inch blade.
“Thank you,” Vicki said, shrugging it off. “It is rather warm in here.”
It did not take Bruce long at all to notice what she was wearing. When he did, he put his smartphone away.
Her Jill Stuart strapless ruched silk evening gown plunged between her cleavage, while still being tight enough to show the curve of her belly and the firmness of her breasts. Those seemed far too large to wear with such a revealing garment, especially without a bra on, and her innocent look just made it worse. Bruce found himself riveted to her cleavage, which stretched her bodice nearly to the point of bursting with each jiggling breath, but was too well-tailored to come off as classless or obscene. It was simply an excessively gilded frame on a beautiful painting.
Bruce did manage to look away, and caught the maître d’ staring down Vicki’s décolletage from where he hovered over them. At a throat-clearing from the billionaire, the maître d’ hastened away to await their order.
“Mmmm,” Vicki said, eying the menu and Bruce with equal hunger. “Everything looks so good; doesn’t it?”
Bruce found himself coughing. He never coughed. “Yes. Reasonable prices too,” he added with a touch of irony.
Vicki let her menu flip down to the table, totally revealing her bosom once again. “Hard to know where to start, isn’t it?”
With a deep, mediatory breath, Bruce forced himself back under control. “Perhaps I’ll order for the both of us. I can’t imagine you have much taste for haute cuisine on a reporter’s salary.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. I have a few book deals…”
“I insist. It’s my treat; I feel obliged to make sure you don’t have an unsatisfactory meal.”
“Just as long as whatever you feed me tastes good.” Vicki grinned, steepling her forearms under her chin and leaning forward. His view of her cleavage becoming enough to make any man drool.
The maître d’ was kind enough to return then. Bruce suspected they would normally be tended to by a simple waiter, but for ‘madame’s’ neckline. Normally, Bruce would’ve been offended, but he himself was having a tough enough time keeping his eyes off Vicki’s burgeoning bodice.
Bruce ordered for them, sending the maître d’ off with a curt nod, and Vicki fished her Dictaphone out of her clutch. She set it on the table between them, her fawning hand and coy stare making it an erotic a gesture as her passing him a condom. “Shall we get started?”
Bruce took a deep breath, ignoring her perfume. He had to retake control, of himself and the situation. Vicki took it as assent, reaching to press Record, but Bruce intercepted her hand over the recorder. He gave it a subtle squeeze.
“What would you say about having this interview off-the-record?”
Vicki laughed in surprise. “Mr. Wayne, my publisher is paying your charity a great deal of money for an exclusive interview. It needs to be on the record.”
“I’m aware of that. But what say tonight we just… get to know one another a little better. Feel each other out. We can have an interview anytime.”
He saw her eyes whirling with quick calculation and could almost guess her thoughts. She needed his answers. She needed something she could print. But… he was effectively offering her two interviews for the price of one. Almost a practice run to get her bearings before she really got started. But could she trust him to give her her second interview?
Her desire to assert herself battled with her desire to put him at ease, and finally she decided to go with the first rule of interviewing a reticent subject: always roll with what they’re running.
“Of course. If you don’t mind me camping out on your driveway to get the official statement.”
“I promise not to make you sleep on my driveway.”
Vicki’s nipples were hardening.
She uncrossed her legs and set them under the table, just as their wine arrived. They toasted, Bruce declaring something in Arabic he promised to explain to her later, and drank. Like all wine, Vicki didn’t get much out of it beyond a tickle under her nose. She’d never be a connoisseur.
Bruce’s laser-focused eyes scaled her body again, like there was something he could’ve missed on his last dozen passes. Vicki enjoyed the scrutiny. It wasn’t like it was any secret what some women were willing to do for a scoop. I spent the night with Superman, anyone?
“So, how’s life with the terrible twosome?” Vicki asked, dangling her wine flute from an outstretched hand.
Bruce smiled in consideration. “Interesting.” He tilted his head to the side. “Challenging.”
“Very specific. Not a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of specific.”
“Mmm.” Bruce crossed his legs, clenching his hands atop his knee. “Well, if you must know our sleeping arrangements—“
Vicki leaned back in her chair, inviting another examination she graciously endured. She wondered which he liked best. Her tits seemed a bit obvious; she always felt her slender calves and smooth legs were underrated. And her sultry face in its halo of honey-blonde hair… there was a reason all her books had it up front and center. “I must, I must.”
“Pamela and Harleen share a room in the same wing of the manor as mine.”
“You don’t sleep together.”
“I didn’t say that. But we have differing sleep cycles; I’m something of a night owl. It’s an issue of comfort. When I proposed to the two of them, it was knowing that we’d all have to work to accommodate each other.”
“But it is a sexual relationship?”
“Yes.”
Vicki blinked at Bruce’s forthrightness. “I’d always understood that Ivy and Harley were more interested in their own company than—forgive me—some man.”
“Depends on the man, I suppose. I certainly don’t have any complaints.”
“And do you… take turns or…?”
“Off the record?” Bruce asked again. Vicki gave a nod. “We do whatever works.”
“Such as?”
Bruce smiled. “You seem a bit fixated on our bedroom, Ms. Vale.”
“Call me Vicki. Since we’re off the record.”
“Only if you call me Bruce.”
“Certainly. You do rather roll off the tongue.”
Vicki slipped her feet out of her heels. One set of toes felt the chill of the one-way glass they were dining on. The other stretched under the dinner table to press lightly on the toe of Bruce’s shoe.
He rapped his fingers on his knee as if he wasn’t even aware of her foot. “Harleen and Pamela are my wives in every respect. But they’re not harem girls, and I didn’t marry them because I wanted them in my bed. First and foremost, they’re my guests. I want to see them happy and healthy. I don’t want there to be any danger to either them or to anyone around them.”
“Spoken like a press release. Come on, Bruce. You can’t tell me a man with your reputation wasn’t thinking at all about the side benefits of being married to two attractive women, both bisexual, neither strangers to—” Vicki lightly drew her instep up Bruce’s calf, finding it shockingly firm with muscle. “—whatever.”
“What’s next? Are you going to suggest I had an ulterior motive in asking an attractive reporter with a certain reputation to dinner?”
“What reputation?” she insisted, even as her toes climbed his thigh.
Bruce was trying very hard to understand his reaction to her. He wanted to tell her about Harley and Ivy—turn her on with all the sordid details of how he’d fucked them both. More than that, he wanted inside her. His cock felt like a sword hot from the forge, demanding to be cooled in the soft waters of her sex. Already it strained at his boxers. All he could do was decide whether to go with this sudden, errant impulse or excuse himself, go to the bathroom, call the Watchtower and have himself teleported up—
He couldn’t even think further than that. Not when Vicki’s tits were right then, begging to be looked at and demanding to be touched. He couldn’t think. He could barely breathe, locked in the stiffness of his resolve. All he could do… was leave the decision up to her.
“I hear you were roommates with Summer Gleeson in journalism school. And you shared a lot more than clothes. Not to mention all the times you’ve been taken hostage by Calendar Girl, or Nyssa al Ghul, or Magpie—never any male villains…”
Her eyes flashed. “Are you insinuating I’m ‘easy’, Bruce?”
“No. I think you’re difficult. I’m just good.” He spread his hands. “Two wives.”
“How good do you have to be when they sleep with each other?”
“How good are you when they stop sleeping with each other?”
Vicki decided to find out. With her massage of his thigh not making him move an inch, she pressed on and touched the bulge between his legs.
The muscle there was hard too.
“Is there anything wrong, Bruce? You seem a little… stiff.” With impressive control of her body, she leaned forward even as her foot stayed exactly where she wanted it. Her creamy breasts pillowed up and out of her bodice, showing their curvature all the way to the areola.
Bruce watched her without any apparent enthusiasm. As he hid his anger, his hatred, so he hid her lust for her so deep that it had all the room in the world to grow. “Nothing’s wrong, except you’re going to knock the wine over with your tits if you don’t keep that flimsy dress pulled up,” he said, voice monotone.
Then, very calmly, he undid the top button of his trousers and slid the zipper down as far as it would go. The sound was inaudible to Vicki, who stared at his poker face for cracks. Hidden under the table, Bruce soon had his cock free from its prison. With his other hand, he gripped Vicki’s foot. Quite naturally, he brought it against the swollen shaft of his erection.
Vicki’s leg tensed up, then released as she realized what hard, naked flesh she was touching. She saw nothing wrong with flirting a little with her subjects; it was one more tool in her reporter’s arsenal, and if male reporters could use their male privilege, she could use her feminine charms.
But going all the way? Not a handjob, not brushing her tits against his arm, but actually having him inside her? Wouldn’t that make her a whore?
No. It’d make her a woman who had sex with Bruce Wayne and maybe even got a story out of the deal too. For that, she’d get Whore tattooed right on her.
“Oh, Mr. Wayne, I’m ever so sorry!” she said in sweet apology. “How inconsiderate of me! I’ve let you see so much of my great big tits that you’ve gone and had an erection, haven’t you?” She moved a theatrical hand to her mouth. “I’m sooooo sorry. That was very rude on my part! I just have to make it feel better. Let me kiss it and make it better…”
She slid under the table, happy to lay eyes on just what a long, hard present he had for her. Pulling her hem out of the way, she knelt down and placed a kiss on the purpling head. His manhood vibrated in anticipation of more.
“Did that make you feel better?” she asked, looking up Bruce’s lap. His erection nearly blotted out her view of his face.
“It’s a start,” Bruce told her, setting a firm hand on the crown of her head. He was cold as a glacier and about as implacable, his very lack of response presenting a challenge to her that she couldn’t resist.
She lapped at his shaft now, teasing it for no other reason than she wanted to know just how big it could get. Already, he looked bigger than the largest man she’d ever deep-throated. A big dick and a billion-dollar inheritance. The guy must’ve been the Pope in his previous life.
“So,” Vicki asked, “does Harley Quinn do this for you?”
Bruce’s silver-blue eyes bore into Vicki until she was almost ready to admit defeat. “Yes. She does. And if you’d like the juicy details of what I do with her…” He pushed down hard on her head. In the direction of his upright phallus.
The reporter opened her mouth wide, placing it at the tip of his cock. His steady pressure on the back of her head worked her over his first few inches. Vicki knew she had a small mouth, but he was truly gargantuan. Her jaw was stretched so far it was aching. But Vicki had to admit, there was nothing wrong with the heady taste and pungent smell of his aroused manhood.
Once she was sure she could take the flaring head, she vacuumed down the broad inches of his prick, pulling him down her throat as fast as she could. She shut her eyes as she went down on him, wanting to focus only on the presence of his meat between her lips.
Bruce’s expression might have been carved into stone. Aside from the steady pulse of his nostrils, not one muscle twitched in his impassive face. He simply clamped his hand on the back of Vicki’s neck and applied even more pressure, the veins on his forearm standing out as he forced Vicki’s willing mouth down on his cock.
The reporter almost gagged as the tip of his staff lodged in the back of her throat, smearing precum in her gullet, but she thought of other reporters he’d been seen with: Summer Gleeson, Lois Lane, Cat Grant. She was determined to do better than them!
Tears swam in her eyes, but she gave into the pressure he exerted on her and allowed Bruce to feed his cock not only into her mouth, but deep into her throat. Bruce didn’t stop his descent into that satin-soft, vice-tight grip until her nose was flattened against the wiry hairs of his pubis. Then he looked up and greeted the returning maître d’.
“Oh! Where is Ms. Vale?” the maître d’ asked once he’d come through the door, not seeing her under the tablecloth.
“Something came up that she had to attend to. I’m sure she’ll be back shortly,” Bruce said, with all the emotion he’d put into a discussion of the Italian cinema.
A waiter pushed in a tray containing the varied entrees and dishes of the meal, which the maître d’ described in detail as each was unveiled and presented on the table. Vicki didn’t hear what was vegetarian and what wasn’t. Bruce’s thick, coarse fingers were in her hair, ruining the elaborately effortless coif as he pulled her up and down, forcing her to bob her head on his huge cock again and again. Vicki tried not to suck too nosily, even if it meant her saliva ran down over his manhood, forced out by each pump she made on his shaft.
The maître d’ finished and departed, clearly disappointed that he hadn’t been given another opportunity to leer at Vicki. Bruce bid him and the waiter adieu, then calmly sliced up his steak tartare. He took one bite, then another, chewing politely as if Vicki were sitting across from him instead of between his spread legs, her head rocking upon his cock.
Gently cupping Vicki’s head again, he pulled her off his cock. It sprang up from her mouth as soon as it left it, hitting her in the nose. Vicki was left gasping for air, his cock looming over her.
“You really should try this; Chef Boussard has outdone himself,” Bruce said, offering her a forkful of the steak tartare. “I think I detect a hint of black pepper. Tell me what you think.”
Vicki took the bite he offered her, chewed distractedly, and swallowed. “It’s good,” she reported dully.
“Maybe we should get on with the interview. I’d hate for your food to get cold.”
Vicki stared at his intensely erect cock, offended by his continued tumescence. “I want your cum!”
“Well, they have Hollandaise sauce.”
Almost growling, Vicki tried to stuff his cock back in her mouth. It’d gotten bigger since the last time; her lips were pulled so far apart by taking him inside that she felt like they would snap. But she loved it. As much as he played it cool, him being even harder meant that he was responding to her overtures.
Vicki went down on him with all her might; his cock came rushing into her mouth and she cradled it with her tongue, massaged the underside of his shaft. She let her own lust propel his cock down her throat like a battering ram. It jerked and bucked in her gullet; she knew she was getting to him.
If only her mouth could accept such a big dick. If only she could breathe. It’d been months since she’d given a blowjob; between journalism and her book deals she hadn’t had time for so much as a one-night stand. She just wasn’t used to deep-throating such a massive slab of meat, and when her world turned black and red at the edges with no more to show for it than a steady trickle of precum, she pulled herself off him.
His cock came out and out and out of her mouth, resuming its flagpole vigil over her, now dripping with her saliva almost—but not quite—to the root. Vicki spoke almost as viciously as she gulped in air. “No way is that fucking Juggalo Quinn better at this than me! What does it take to get you off!?”
Bruce looked down at her apologetically—as falsely sorry as she had been to provoke his erection. “I’m sorry, how rude of me. You were asking what I did with Harleen for sex. It’s this.”
His strong fingers tightened in her hair, almost hurting her. Powerfully, he pulled her back down to his cock. She sucked on him, but not fast enough for his liking. Bruce forced her into the rhythm he desired, slamming her down on him and pulling her back up with no regard for her sputtering gagging, her lost breath. She couldn’t escape his grip and she didn’t want to.
Again and again she was flung onto his prick; it drove into her throat with more speed, more force, always more. And yet her lips formed a perfect O around the swollen circumference of him. She even let her teeth clamp down, raking over his cock to leave fiery red in their wake. Bruce moaned for the first time; a low and broken sound.
As if angered by his own passion, he pulled on her hair so demandingly he almost ripped it out by the roots. Distantly, Vicki wanted to slow down, wanted to savor his engorged cock being buried in her mouth, but she also wanted him to have his way with her. To satisfy his every desire with no more than her mouth.
His hips jerked uncontrollably, further gagging her, and when she managed to focus enough to look up at his face, she saw his stony façade was crumbling to reveal the unrestrained lust underneath. He was her prisoner now: trapped in her sucking mouth, controlled by the pressure of her tongue. Now she wanted him to come.
Her tongue dragged roughly over the tip of his cock when he pulled out, reached for his balls when he was embedded in her. And when he moved, Vicki let the very tip of her tongue drag over his underside, setting him bucking between her lips like his phallus was electric.
Bruce exhaled, hard enough for her to hear, and that was it. She found her mouth filled with burning hot cum. She swallowed; she just had to. And immediately, her mouth was once more stuffed with his salty ejaculation.
Bruce took a deep breath. Then fucked her mouth, hurtling into her throat, letting loose a gulping blast, then slowly retreating. She suffocated the exploding cock, gave it all the tongue she had, sucked as hard as she could. He groaned, engulfed his phallus in her throat once more, and she felt another stingingly hot load traveling directly to her belly.
After three or four repetitions, his fingers went limp in her hair. Bruce’s hips went still. The torrential downpour dwindled. She tapered her mouth up his slackening cock and sucked hard on the head. Another rope of cum fired into her mouth, this one belonging to her tongue and cheeks and the roof of her mouth. She wanted him to know he’d had a goddamn professional between his legs.
Vicki milked another barrage of seed from his cock before releasing him. His cock became flaccid only slowly, painstakingly slow; she licked it all the way down. Sucking up every drop that was left in his balls. Even as Bruce said nothing, she washed his cock clean. And when she was finally done—when his cock and groin and balls were all shimmery with the dew of her licking—she looked up at him, lips wet with cum. “Not bad, huh?”
He smiled benignly. “Maybe I should’ve married you.”
Vicki got off her stiff knees and resumed her seat, washing down his prodigious cum with the remaining wine in her glass. Then she started on the food.
For a few minutes, they ate in silence. Vicki’s mind seemed to flee from what they had done; she prided herself on returning to a journalistic mentality with the taste of cum hot on her tongue. Once more she went over the questions she had prepared for him. She was so engrossed in her planned conversation that it took her a moment to notice the nudge of Bruce’s foot against her calf. As the caress continued, she pulled herself back to reality and looked across the table to Bruce, vibrantly enjoying his meal.
You slut, she thought. Two wives and you still can’t get enough.
She pressed her leg against his wandering ankle. That slight pressure, she had to admit, was reawakening her pussy so fast… Christ, what was wrong with her? Even in journalism school, with Summer Gleeson for a roommate and a campus lecture from Lois Lane, she hadn’t been this slutty.
With utter contrivance, she brushed her salad fork off the table and then, with the false apology they’d come to share, bent to pick it up.
Under the table, Bruce still had not replaced his cock in his trousers. And it was not the limp beast she had killed five minutes ago. It jutted up from his groin like a monolith, the knob at the end larger than ever, visibly pulsing with his need for her. She was both fascinated and revolted by the sheer degree of lust he possessed; to be so hard after fucking her in the face so recently. Vicki’s mixed feelings were surprisingly arousing for her. She wondered if birds felt this way about snakes. Hypnotized whilst on the verge of being utterly devoured.
She sat back up, the salad fork forgotten, and Bruce gave her a knowing smile when she realized its absence. His foot now rested on Vicki’s chair, up under her dress, toes stroking her groin. His sock and her panties stood between skin contact, but that just made it worse. She thought of how it’d be to be skin to skin with him like she was planning a three-part article on it.
Vicki ate faster. She was now distinctly worried about her food growing cold. Bruce was pressing into her pussy with inexorable rhythm: pushing in steadily, then silently withdrawing. She could’ve almost ignored it if it weren’t truly pleasurable.
Her cunt was now soft and wet inside her panties, her body similarly warm with lustful hunger. Vicki’s thighs spread wide. She pushed her sex into the ball of Bruce’s foot. It felt…!
Bruce’s grin was not smug. More like he’d been working out a thorny problem, and now come up with an acceptable solution.
“Shall we…” Vicki was surprised by how her voice shook. “Shall we continue on with the interview?” Her expression begged him, but even she didn’t know for which answer: yes or no.
Bruce finished his wine. “Well, that was what I do to my wife Harleen,” he said conversationally. “Now, would you like to know what I do with Pamela Isley?”
Slowly, deliberately, he fingered his salad fork off the table. Crawled under the tablecloth to retrieve it.
Vicki felt a tug at her legs, as soft and irresistible as the undertow to an exhausted swimmer…
***
It was most unusual, the maître d’ thought. He’d returned to deliver the check to his esteemed guests, only for both Mr. Wayne and Ms. Vale to be missing, their food half-eaten and their salad forks on the ground beside their chairs. None of the waiters or bathroom attendants had seen them about.
He was sure they’d turn up, of course. Such an august personality as Bruce Wayne wouldn’t think of pulling a ‘dine and dash’ like some common fratboy. For now, he simply put the check on the table and left.
He hoped the food had been satisfactory. His mission in life was to ensure everyone had a satisfying experience at L'enfermer.
As soon as he shut the door, the table gave a wobble. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Wayne,” Vicki breathed. “Your cock’s still so big and hard and it’s all my fault! Let me take care of that for you—“
Then the table really shook.
***
A plate of foie gras worth more than a month’s salary in some jobs crashed to the ground. But even if Vicki had noticed it, she would’ve had far more important things to worry about.
Her dress, for one thing. It had cost a thousand dollars and she was sure Bruce had ripped it in his haste to grope her breast. Her make-up could probably do with a touch-up; if one of Bruce’s nearly painful kisses hadn’t smudged it, then having her face smushed against the floor as he took her from behind most definitely had. Her hair certainly needed a comb; Bruce had pulled at it even more, to the point that she wondered if it was a fetish with him. And of course, there was the business of the condoms in her clutch—she hadn’t gotten them. Having Bruce Wayne inside her had seemed much more important than seeing to it he was wrapped in latex first.
Not that she was worrying about any of these things, any more than she was about the foie gras. No, she was only concerned with the white-hot blasts of pleasure that went through her every time Bruce pumped his thick cock inside her, the hoarseness of her throat as she screamed explosive ecstasy into the gag of Bruce’s hand, and the hot juices flowing around the sides of Bruce’s cock that she would’ve taken for his ejaculation if he didn’t just keep wracking her with thrusts straight from his loins. Which meant they had to be hers. Oh well.
Bruce hadn’t spoken—for an interview, he hadn’t said much at all—but he did grunt and groan and start a roaring sound that didn’t make it to his lips, but rumbled in his chest like the raging water behind a dam. And as he gripped Vicki tightly by the hips and pulled her violently to his monstrously stiff cock, lifting her clear off the ground each time, lips wet with her sweat approached Vicki’s lustfully contorted face and he made words that, to Vicki, seemed intrinsically linked to his shaft’s expansions and orgasmic convulsions—just like a speaker vibrating as it pumped bass.
“Look down there,” he said. She knew he was staring over her shoulder, down through the translucent glass floor/skylight to the dining room below them. The milling business of waiters bringing meals up, cooks preparing them, customers waiting for tables, all on transparent display. Another of Bolton’s security measures. “Imagine if they looked up. Imagine if they could see through this floor.”
Vicki whimpered as she felt electric shivers of lust working their way through his powerfully built body, making his cock quiver inside of her. Another hellish drag of her sex against his unyielding manhood and she whimpered even louder.
“They’d see what a slut you are, Vicki. Would you like that? Everyone seeing how much you love being fucked? Men? Women? Would you like them to know how hard you’re coming?”
“Yes! Yes! Oh God, yes!”
Bruce came thick and hard, deep into her hungry pussy, and he didn’t stop until she was filled up with fresh cum. His delicious brutality finally cooled, becoming a slow, luxurious dance of his hips, in and out of her, as the blast of his seed tapered off inside Vicki.
They ground to a stop, Bruce rolling off her and Vicki limply dropping beside him, against his body, laying her head on his outstretched arm. They were still connected, and she moaned with regret as he dwindled inside her.
Vicki hadn’t come when he did. But then, she’d already orgasmed six times. Seven seemed excessive.
“Ivy,” he said gently, “loves it too.”
***
Bruce finished his meal, but Vicki seemed to have lost her appetite—at least, for the food. She still hadn’t quite recovered after Bruce paid the bill; fainting into her crème bavaroise. Bruce picked her up and wiped her face off with his napkin. A little too much wine, he explained.
Then he escorted her down to the limo, letting her rest her head on his shoulder and clutch firmly to his arm. Her legs didn’t seem able to support her. But finally the limo was brought up to the curve and he loaded her into the backseat, where she tipped over, exposing the white cream trickling down her thighs.
He righted her, then went up to the driver’s window, slipping him a hundred. “Her apartment’s on 320 Baxter Street; the valet will know the apartment number. See that she’s tucked in safe. I’ll make my own way home.”
“Very good, sir,” the driver said, rolling up the window.
Bruce went back to Vicki. She’d slipped off again, but at least she was upright this time. Smiling half apologetically and half not—which seemed to sum up their relationship—Bruce slipped her panties out of his pocket and hid them in her hand. “You’re probably be needing these… If it’s any consolation, I promise to have that second interview with you very soon.”
Vicki groaned dreamily. Bruce shut the door for her. Watched the limo speed off.
Someone had tampered with his biochemistry. He hadn’t been sure before, but it was obvious now. He was lucky he’d been with someone so open to—relieving him.
That, or very, very unlucky. Hard to tell sometimes.
Planning his next move, Bruce did not notice the shadow breaking off from the night sky and speeding down, pulling up at the last moment and skimming over the traffic outside L'enfermer’s lobby. He might not have noticed it at all, owing to his semi-drugged condition, except a lasso shot from it as it rushed past. The rope coiled around him, pinning his arms to his sides in an instant. In another instant, the line went taut and he was dragged right off his feet. Bruce had a sudden sympathy for Vicki Vale having been yanked around so thoroughly by him over the course of the evening.
Only he didn’t think he would enjoy this half as much.
“Come on loverboy!” Roxy Rocket called back, pulling up on the rocket before she could be smeared by an oncoming semi. Dangling behind her, Bruce narrowly avoided the same. “You’re flying Roxy Air now!”
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Marry The Knight