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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
- 7
- 8
- 9
Ivy slept with Harley vined around her. Usually, she thought of herself as a mighty oak, with Harley perhaps a tart fruit growing from her vines. She didn’t feel that way now. She felt rootless, unmoored. When Harley cuddled her, her body stung. The sting made her nipples tingle.
She detached herself from Harley, fleeing guiltily into the spacious bathroom. She closed the door behind her, able to breathe once more. Occasionally she could hear Harley’s heavy snore coming through the door. She was safe. Alone with her memories. Her breath was coming quicker.
She turned to the massive mirror and pulled her nightie from her shoulders, letting it fall down around her shapely hips. Her eyes were aglow as they examined her reflection—the viridian sheen of her chlorophyll-body marred by the darkening bruises of bodies crashed together. Her stingily puffed lips were also from Bruce. She should destroy him for blaspheming the perfection of her body, but she couldn’t think about that now. She could only think of how the little hurts excited her.
She stared at her large breasts, their perkiness making them seem to softly thrust upward in the night air. She cupped one and lifted it before letting it fall free, to quaveringly float before her. Finger and thumb pinched her nipple again; she watched it swelling to life, becoming pointed and tight, as if her arousal were gathering in it.
Both hands went to her breasts. Her mouth opened slightly, her eyes half-closed: she dug her nails into the tender flesh of her cleavage, her nipples coming thrillingly awake. She wondered if Bruce could do this: be rough with her as he had been, but also loving, like Harley was; like Harley said he was with her. She wondered if that cold, calculating man could touch her roughly as part of their lovemaking. Her hands shook as she helped her nightie off her voluptuous ass, letting it pool on the floor.
In the mirror, her bare thighs squeezed tightly together, sending her body into a spiral of needy spasms, lewd excitement. Her sex was swollen, moist, a fire that needed to be quenched. Being naked wasn’t enough. Having an orgasm wasn’t enough. She needed to be fucked, defiled, not just once but over and over again. Maybe by a man—maybe by more than one man. Maybe by Bruce…
She imagined her reflection in front of Bruce… she imagined him telling it all of the horrible, loving things he was going to do to Harley. She imagined watching them together. She imagined Harley watching as she was used—her body used—used until she was a screaming, writhing mass of need—until they both were puddles of fulfillment—until Bruce was satisfied with them.
It wasn’t her. It was her reflection.
“What’s your name?” she asked the mirror.
“Pamela Isley.”
Ivy went back into her room, not caring if she was loud enough to wake Harley, not caring if she left the bathroom light on and it spilled onto the bed. She went to her dresser and retrieved one of her strap-ons and threw it onto the bed, hitting Harley in the face.
“Oww! Red, what the—this isn’t Bruce’s, is it?”
“No, Harl, it’s red. Put it on. I need you to fuck me.”
If she had known, right at that moment, that her erstwhile husband had been kidnapped, it’s hard to say what her reaction would’ve been.
***
They flew for long enough that even Bruce was disoriented, dangling from Roxy’s rocket-cycle. He wasn’t particularly worried. Roxy was an adrenaline junkie, not a killer. Whoever hired her wouldn’t be especially dangerous. He had already activated the tracking device on his belt buckle, but only one click—telling his soldiers to hold back and let him handle things for now.
They landed at a farmhouse outside the Palisades, one of the many that had dried up over the years. No one wanted produce that might’ve been tampered with by Poison Ivy or the Joker. Roxy dismounted her parked rocket, pulling a flour sack from a compartment on its side. Bruce laid nearby, his arms still pinned to his sides by the cable Roxy had lassoed him with.
Roxy looked good as ever. Her flame-red hair shot out from under her cowl and glasses, leading down her flight jacket and black tanktop to a pair of the nicest, firmest breasts Bruce had ever seen. Following the smooth line of her body down to her black tights, brown leather boots, and gunbelt, he saw a perfectly flat belly of obvious musculature, hips that curved seductively into slender thighs, and a pair of runner’s legs. There was a reason she was a stuntwoman and not a beauty queen actress—her body was clearly built for speed, not just sex—but Bruce had to admit, in a city like Gotham, she was the kind men would literally kill to get their hands on.
She pulled the sack over his head, blinding him, and jerked him up. She had strength in her limber frame. He cooperated as she shoved him along.
“Sorry about this, handsome. You might’ve been fun for a playdate, but rocket fuel ain’t cheap. Move it!”
He was barreled forward, catching a shift from exterior to interior, creaking floorboards under him—closing, locking doors behind him. Finally, he was seated roughly. The sack flew off his head, Roxy carrying it away with her.
The inside of the room had been filled with mirrors, interspersed with cut-out pictures of himself from magazines and newspapers. Both were sporadic, a frieze that circled the room from waist-level to a man’s height. Bruce stared at his lonely reflection, real and photographed.
“This whole wretched society revolves around you. White. Male. Young. Rich.” The voice was haunting, familiar. Serious. “A standard of beauty entirely constructed to serve you, which women have to slave under. And now, thanks to the Evilutionist, your sexual desire counts as clemency. Women like Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn are now beholden to you for their freedom—all because they give you a hard-on.”
“Nice work if you can get it,” Roxy muttered.
Bruce followed the direction of her words to a woman in the shadows. He hadn’t seen her in her dark clothing, but now she was removing it, revealing a luscious body, creamily soft flesh deliciously accented by black bra and panties. She was a slender woman, her curves modest, her limbs delicate, her musculature sleek. A model. Near-naked except for the white kabuki mask that covered her face, a sharp delineation of femininity.
Page Monroe—the Calendar Girl.
“I hired Roxy here to help teach you a lesson. Roxy?”
The stuntwoman drew a switchblade from her flight jacket. Working fast, she cut Bruce out of his clothes. Even he had to wince at the speed with which she moved the blade, but she was good. Didn’t even nick him as he was stripped nude.
“I love this job,” she muttered.
“You’re going to answer for your crimes, Mr. Wayne. I’m going to parade you before all the women you slighted by choosing a pair of deranged fantasy objects over them, and you’re going to explain to each one why they weren’t worthy of your Republican dick. Starting with me.”
Bruce was thinking fast, as always. He grasped the dynamic at play. Roxy had the money as an excuse, but there was also the added payback of revenge; the slight of Gotham’s premier playboy being on the market for a villainess and not picking her must’ve rankled. Page, though—she was far more unstable. Her delusional mindset had already compelled her to crime; the world’s new circumstances had coupled with her own rejection complex to engender a vendetta against him. He was now all the men that had rejected her, the face of her own neurotic ostracization. The solution was obvious. He had to embrace her.
“The truth is,” he said haltingly, “I chose Ivy and Harley because they’re… they’re not you. You’d be too much woman for me.”
The mask tilted to one side. “Do you think we’re going to trade witticisms? This is serious business, Wayne.”
“I know it is. But Harley, she’s harmless. A fruitcake. Submissive. And Ivy, we all know she’s not interested in men. I don’t have to—please her. Someone like you… you’d overwhelm me. I wouldn’t be in control with a woman like you around. I’d need you, and even though my body screamed how much it wanted you, I tried to deny myself that. I was right to. Being in the same room as you is too intoxicating.”
“Don’t mock me, you scum!” She strode right up to him, clasping his broad shoulders in her hands, leaning over him. “I know how men like you look at me. A freak. A circus attraction. Hideously deformed…”
“You’re not. You’re beautiful. You make Harley and Ivy look like—silly little girls. You’re a woman.”
“Oh, I see—how typical. As long as I have the mask on, you can dehumanize me. Make me into a piece of meat for your consuming gaze. If I took it off, I know how you’d scream. You couldn’t stand the sight of me.”
“Take it off then. Show me. You hide behind that thing to avoid judgment, but you have nothing to fear. Without it, you’ll only be more beautiful.” Bruce had total control over his own body; now he exercised it. He imagined how exquisitely tight her sex must be, after she’d deprived herself of companionship for so long. He thought of wedging himself in her, feeling her searing heat and silky moistness. His cock stirred restlessly and began to grow.
“Whoa mama,” Roxy said. “I think you’re getting to him.”
Page looked down at it, and even through the mask, Bruce thought he caught an answering flicker of surprised lust. “Do you think that intimidates me, Wayne? What if I took you up on your offer? Took off this mask and ravished you—as you begged me to stop, as you were forced to look at the hideous visage your society has forced on me. Would that satisfy you, Wayne? Would you be so lustful then?”
He lowered his voice, starred into her eyes. How Selina would’ve loved to see him use her tricks. “I want you to.”
She undid her mask’s straps from her sable-black hair. Her face was as close to perfection as it had ever been: big hazel eyes, pert nose, pouting red lips. The face that had been worthy of billboards, magazine covers, TV commercials. The only defects were in her mind. A scar through her eyebrow from when a punch had shattered her mask; it was only an inch long. Another cut on her lip, long since healed.
Bruce made his own balls ache, his erection was so stiff. It took very little concentration.
“I want you, Page. I need you. I love you. Let me have you, kiss you—“
“Shut up!” She slapped him. “How dare you mock me! I was thinking of letting you off with a warning, but now--!” She peered down at his throbbing cock. Her eyes were glassy. She continued in a strained voice: “Now your cock is mine.”
She grabbed his cock, soft fingers going hard. “I’m going to fuck you, Wayne,” she rasped. “Just like you people used to think of fucking me. You all laughed about my tits and my cunt and you boasted about how hard you’d fuck me. Well, now you’re going to have to follow through. You’re not gonna get me all hot and then quit on me. No. Now that you’ve got me this way, you’re going to do something about it. I’ll make you do something about it!”
In a flash, she was ripping off her bra and panties. “Look at my pussy! Look how wet you made it! That’s what you do—you like your women weak and helpless, so you tease her, tease her until she can’t help herself, then you fuck her brains out and make her like it! You won’t like this, Wayne! I’ve made your cock hard! Now I’m going to use it!”
She grabbed his cock again, hard enough to make him gasp, and held it still as she shifted her hips over him. He could taste her excitement as she placed his cockhead against her sex. With exquisite slowness, she descended on him, her entire body wracked with pleasure as she swallowed up his cock. Bruce tensed, finding it actually difficult to keep from coming as the supermodel settled atop him, her nervousness and excitement opiates to his sex drive.
“Oh God—you’re even more beautiful… even more beautiful when you smile,” he gasped, not finding it hard to fake his adrenaline rush.
Page wiped her unconscious smile off her face. “Bastard!” Her soft hair hung in front of her face, giving her a feral look as she dug her fingernails into his ribs and began to work herself over him, mewling gutturally. With his member ensconced inside her and the rhythm set, she leaned back, moving her body in a serpentine dance, eyes locked with his.
“So beautiful… the joy in your eyes… the smell of your perfume—it’s all gorgeous…”
With a roar of exertion, Page jammed her breasts into his face, rubbing them over the sharp lines of his cheekbones as her hips worked tirelessly against him. “Suck them!” she commanded. “You bastard—like to use your mouth so much—ooh!“
Bruce bit down hard, the pain cutting into Page’s pleasure, multiplying it. Her nipple spiked in his mouth, making it an easy target for his lashing tongue, and he felt her pussy churn violently around his cock in retaliation. She bounced up and down on his shaft so hard that the wooden chair legs creaked underneath Bruce, the floorboards under them rattling. And when she looked down at his face, she saw his eyes staring up at her, unabashedly meeting hers, full of love and softness and desire. And no matter how brutally she fucked him, Bruce was aptly equipped to take it.
Slowly, her mask of anger was replaced with one of raw lust. Her face drifted back, briefly escaping the weight of his stare, but she still knew its warmth. It reminded her of the old days, before the violence, when she could command a man’s heart with just a look—
She leaned back so far that Bruce’s mouth was free. He spoke in aching need: “Page…”
Her orgasm burned across her like a forest fire whipped by the wind. All of her weight slammed down on Bruce and she shrieked like a banshee, expelling all her confusing wants, her aching enjoyment. She cursed as she came, again and again, a raw, searing catharsis deep inside her.
“Fuck you!” she screamed as if in agony, her pelvis slamming against his with a twist of pain that neither of them felt. “Fuck you! Fuck—fuck me like an animal! You made me an animal! A bitch in heat! Fuck me like one! Give me your cock!”
And now Bruce started to move, all his muscles working to push him upward. As Bruce Lee would move his fist six inches and deliver a devastating punch, so Bruce Wayne rammed up into Page with incredible strength. She whooped joyfully, suddenly riding a bucking bronco.
“Yes!” she squealed. “That’s it!” She hung limply backward from his lap, hair reaching to the floor as his cock continued to drive into her straddling hips, whipping her hanging torso around. For long minutes, they were just cunt and cock, thrusting, receiving, taking pleasure and giving it. Until finally, they were sealed together as one animalistic orgasm.
“Bastard… you bastard,” Page whimpered, slumping off him, wet with his climax. Her hands clenched at her groin as if trying to hold it in, contain the pleasure she still felt. “You made me come—how dare you make me come like that—how am I supposed to be good when you make me come so hard…?”
Through Bruce was still bound to a threateningly groaning chair, Page was on the floor, her legs open, her face dazed and baffled. And Roxy was still watching, her eyes alight with great interest. She had taken off her jacket, the better to feel her ripe nipples through her tanktop, and her pants, the better to masturbate, and now that Page was disposed of, she saw Bruce’s cock in the air, flagging hard-hard.
“My turn.”
Stepping over Page, she threw herself down on it, trapping it between her fondling hands and flapping tongue. Her hands fluttered over his ass, her tongue ran over the bottom of his scrotum, caught one of his balls and clasped it in her sucking mouth. Bruce groaned as he began to grow hard once more. With his endlessly trained endurance, he could easily sustain himself through multiple sex sessions if he didn’t make his body grow limp as an ordinary man’s would. Somehow, he didn’t think to do that while Roxy was pumping his cock with her leather-gloved hand.
“You know, I did a little porn before I got out of the stuntwoman business,” Roxy said. “Good for some cheap thrills, but no real money in it. Never had a guy go soft on me when he wasn’t supposed to. If he did, wouldn’t that come as a blow?”
Page dimly raised her head. “Get away from him, you slut, he’s mine!”
“You had your go. It’s my shot now—take it out of my fee if you want, this is worth it…” Bruce moaned as Roxy lapped at him from the root of his cock to the tip, her tongue seeming to stretch him out, back to full hardness. “Wait, no—you having failure to launch wouldn’t come as a blow. This would!” And she drew his prick into her sharp mouth.
Bruce exhaled nosily. He had to get kidnapped more often.
Roxy smacked him on the ass—he automatically jerked forward, driving his cock deeper into her throat. Roxy laughed around his prick as she kept spanking him, forcing Bruce to shove his cock in and out of her mouth—fucking her throat. Until finally, she heard him groan desperately. Then Page just held her mouth open and waited.
Bruce’s cock jerked and lurched and finally, savagely, it fired into her mouth to be greedily caught by her throat. She sucked and gulped, sucked and gulped as he filled her mouth many times over, his body straining off the chair he was tied to. Only when Bruce collapsed back down did Roxy lift her wild mouth from his spent and shrinking prick.
“Whoa! What a ride! But I think I’m ready to get in the cockpit now!”
Bruce was gasping. Vicki and Page and Roxy, in one night… he wasn’t used to exerting himself this way. Obviously, he would have to train harder. “There isn’t anymore.”
“Oh yeah?” Roxy wiped her mouth off with the back of her hand. “I know what’ll get you hard. Same thing that gets all you guys hard. C’mere, Calendar Girl—you wanna show him us chicks don’t need men, I know the perfect way to. Uncle Warbucks is right… you are one swell gal…”
Page suddenly found herself surrounding by clinging curves, Roxy’s lopsided grin in her face—everything she turned, lust-warm flesh, groping hands, fingers at her breasts and sex and ass and nipples. Sinuous words flowed into her ears, not letting up any more than the hands did, whispering all the ways Roxy liked to ride…
Bruce found himself responding to the sight, letting himself respond to it…
“FREEZE, GCPD! HANDS—“
The SWAT commander’s gruff bellow eased off as he and his men absorbed the sight before them, the broken door they had rammed through swinging idly behind them like a flag in weak wind. Bruce Wayne was tied up, naked, his cock flagging and smeared with his own semen. On the floor, the naked Calendar Girl and the bottomless Roxy Rocket were wrestling each other, so engrossed in each other’s bodies that it took a moment for their wanton moans to cease.
“Officer,” Bruce said calmly, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding—“
***
Five minutes later, Bruce was wrapped in one of the ambulance’s blankets. Harvey Bullock was taking his statement, though he was doing far more talking than listening.
“You’re telling me you just got married to the only two women to make the Maxim Hot 100 with a body count, and now you’re stepping out on them to role-play being kidnapped and used as a sex slave?”
Bruce nodded. “The missionary position gets a little old.”
“BUDDY, I HAD TWENTY PEOPLE PHONING 911 SAYING BRUCE WAYNE GOT KIDNAPPED! WE’VE GOT REPORTERS CAMPED OUT AT POLICE HEADQUARTERS DEMANDING A STATEMENT! YOUR GODDAMN COMPANY’S STOCK DROPPED TWO POINTS AND YOU’RE TELLING ME YOU WERE JUST GETTING YOUR ROCKS OFF?”
Bruce jerked his head to the women, who were not handcuffed but were being closely watched by the assembled officers. “You wouldn’t?”
Bullock paused, toothpick dropping out of his mouth. “You got me there. Alright, get the hell out of here. And next time keep it behind closed doors?”
“I do apologize for the confusion, Roxy got a little overly enthusiastic. What is going to happen to my—friends, anyway?”
Bullock took out another toothpick, the habit of a reformed smoker already needing another expression. “The Rocketeer’s free to go. Calendar Girl has some outstanding warrants—blew up a couple Macy’s, luckily before the sales started. She’ll be coming with us.”
“That’s out of the question, officer. I’ve asked Ms. Monroe to marry me. You’ll set her free immediately, of course.”
Bullock lost another toothpick.
***
Ivy was about to beg Harley to ram the dildo into her again when the blonde kissed her lips passionate. They both grunted as Harley lifted her hips and slammed the strap-on home, the whole length of it forcing Ivy violently open.
“Do you want it like this, Red?” Harley asked, punching it into Ivy’s wet pussy. “Is this okay? Am I fucking you with my big dick like Mistah B does?”
“Harder!” Ivy demanded. The dildo was much bigger than she had remembered—had she really been using something that big on Harley all this time? She wailed, her passion building, climbing—
“I’m gonna give it to you!” Harley warned. “Give it to you even harder than Brucie!”
“Good!” Ivy wailed. “Just make sure I—come!”
The phone picked then to ring. It kept ringing and ringing, and after the machine got it, it started ringing again. Ivy growled as she pushed Harley off her, rolled over, and crawled to the phone on the nightstand.
“WHAT! What the fuck is it?”
Selina’s sultry voice oozed over the line. “It’s twelve PM. Do you know where your husband is?”
“Windsurfing! What the fuck is it to you?”
Harley, seeing the tempting target of Ivy on her hands and knees, walked on her knees to the presented green backside.
“Windsurfing. Hunh. Well, the way I hear it—from my source in the GCPD—Bruce is out proposing marriage to Calendar Girl. Fucking Calendar Girl.”
“Wha--?” Ivy demanded as she felt her sex once more entered. She looked over her shoulder to see Harley’s face curled in concentration, tongue poking out the side of her mouth. God, she looked cute. God, it felt good.
“I could understand if it were Silver St. Cloud or someone, I like her, but that ivory-faced goon? The reason I let you two idiots marry the big lug was that I trusted you to keep him satisfied. I don’t want to marry him, but if I do, I don’t want to be the johnny-come-lately to a fucking harem!”
“Fuck me harder, Harl! Fuck me!”
“WHAT?”
“It’s nothing, you caught me—“ Ivy hissed in sublime pleasure as Harley did as she was told. “Right in the middle of something!”
Harley clutched Ivy’s voluptuous body and began to throb, getting off on pleasing Ivy.
“Ivy, you useless lesbian. Fine. I’ll handle it myself.”
“Fuck off, housecat. Wayne is our… our… our mark!” Ivy almost wanted to stop, but the pleasure was too much. She grunted and preened her ass to the invading strap-on, spasming to the command of Harley’s bursting ecstasy.
“Not for long,” Selina replied, though Ivy barely heard her as she came long and hard.
Then she hung in the afterglow as Harley hugged her from behind, the dildo still scrunched up her sex. “No more waiting,” Ivy breathed. “Who cares about the inheritance? Let’s just kill him and ransack the place—there must be enough jewels in this heap for us to make it to Bolivia…”
“Yes, dear,” Harley said, thinking she’d be happy to kill Bruce.
Just so long as she got his dick first, same as Ivy had.
***
They took Page to lock-up to wait for the paperwork on her marriage. Behind her white mask, she was silent. Roxy, meanwhile, took her pay-out from the job and immediately went to Josie’s Bar. It was a low-down den of scum, but she was fine either finding someone to drag into an alley or finding someone to try and drag her into an alley. She’d already gotten laid, she could use a good fight.
She wasn’t expecting to walk into a war zone. The crowd of ex-cons and prospective dirtbags was laid out, Batman standing in their midst, not even winded. With the lights knocked out, he was mostly shadow.
“I’ve been expecting you. Come with me.”
Roxy followed. Batman was the only man she’d ever found who’d been able to keep up with her for any stretch of time. She’d give him a shot.
Back out under the night sky, in an alleyway of twisted fire escapes and decrepit furniture being cannibalized by some mutant strain of moss, he towered over her.
“I’ve been allowing you to run free. That was an oversight. You’re a thrillseeker, Roxy—harmless enough, in your own way, but it’s only a matter of time until you get pulled into something more sinister and someone really gets hurt.”
“Look who’s talking,” Roxy replied.
He wasn’t amused. “You can keep going with your present lifestyle, knowing that sooner or later you’ll either be in jail or have blood on your hands, or you can go another way. I can offer you an outlet for your—urges.”
“Yeah?” She eyed him. He was kinda cute, in a Dracula sort of way. His jaw was almost as square as Bruce Wayne’s.
“I have operatives. You know the sort of work we do. Catching murderers, stopping robberies—exciting enough for you?”
“Maybe. What’s in it for me, though? Rocket fuel ain’t cheap, bud.”
“So I’ve heard.” He flipped her a card from his glove. It wasn’t paper, but a very slender sort of smartpaper. Currently, it displayed an address. “Go there if you’re interested. One of my associates will meet you there. If you do decide to go through with this, I’ll expect you to obey my orders at all times—and treat my team’s orders as if they were my own.”
“So who’s my friendly? Nightwing?” she asked hopefully.
“Robin.”
“You’re pawning me off on the boy wonder? What about fighting the League of Shadows with you?”
“Prove to me you can handle a night with him.”
“And if I can?”
“I’ll see about more dangerous work—and reimbursing you for your services.”
“Yeah, all those Batman dildos they sell, bet you’re just loaded.” Roxy strutted off before he could pull a disappearing act, flexing the card curiously.
Batman observed her passage, silent and watchful. “Dildos…” he grumbled. He raised a hand to his cowl, starting up the communicator. “Wonder Woman,” he vocalized, and the Justice League system patched him through automatically.
Diana’s rich voice came through, always sounding a little clearer than anyone else’s did over comms. “Bruce. Lovely to hear from you. Need the number of a good divorce lawyer?” she quipped.
“Just some help from an old friend. When could you make it to Gotham?”
“I’m a little tied up at the moment. Say, tomorrow? Day or night?”
“Day.”
“Ah, so it’s not the Bat that needs my help. Interesting. I don’t suppose this has anything to do with you getting picked up by a woman?”
“Somewhat.”
“Like they say in Man’s World, ‘this I gotta see.’”
***
Page Monroe sat in her cell. Even Bruce Wayne couldn’t compel the courts to set an escaped convict free simply on his say-so, but she was being treated with kid gloves. She’d even been allowed to keep her mask. That was good. Perhaps Bruce thought she was beautiful, but the others—they saw how ugly she was.
She thought of his offer. Marriage. Mrs. Bruce Wayne Number Three. There’d be press. It’d be just like Kate Middleton. Overnight, she’d be a celebrity again, a fashion icon, interviews, magazine covers. She could put together a look on short notice—rustle up a wedding dress. Something slinky. Something hot. Hideous as she was, if she were Bruce Wayne’s bride, they’d all have to look at her. She’d shove herself in their faces with a wedding ring even better than she could with a gun and a bunch of himbos. And—the honeymoon…
Perhaps Harley or Ivy would think she was beautiful too.
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Marry The Knight