Wednesday, August 25, 2004

65. The Riddler (continued)

I slapped a black leather dog collar around Batman's neck and attached it to a long heavy chain. Before he had time to catch his breath, I dragged him across the room to my next surprise location. He was damn hard to drag, thanks to the extra weight his suit had taken on in the tank (and, of course, that magnificently muscled bod of his). As he slid across the hard surface of the floor, his suit caught on a nail or two and tore in several revealing locations.

Back in the old days, when we first starting playing, he used to put up quite a fight, full of bluster and bravado: "You won't get away with this, Riddler!" he'd brag, and "I'll make you pay for your crimes!" That sort of thing. But not this time. This time, he was mostly quiet beyond a few grunts and groans (which sounded as much like pleasure as pain if you ask me). I kicked him a time or two to see if that would inspire a retort or two, but no go.

"Whatsamatter, Catwoman got your tongue?" I teased. I'm sure he knows that it's way less fun for me when he doesn't put up a fight; I feel like I have to do all the work, and I don't even know if he's enjoying it or not. The only thing I could figure out to do was reach down and pull on his mask.

That got a rise out of him. "NO," he shouted. "We have an agreement, remember? The mask stays ON." I backed off, happy to know that he was still capable of resistance. I turned my attention to his wet suit, digging my hands into the rips and tears and pulling at the material until there was almost nothing of it left to cover his body. I did it slowly, relishing every moment. He really
does have a magnificent bod, all muscle and sinew and hair, and I straddled him in order to get closer. I ran my fingers over various ripples and ravines of his flesh, as I've done so many times in the past, and he tried hard not to look excited by my touch.