The remainder of our time together consisted of the usual traps and torments for old Batsy--a little hot wax here, a little time on the rack there--only he was barely dressed for most of it. Other than his mask, belt, boots, and gloves, his costume was in tatters, and I loved the look of him like that. If only the citizens of Gotham who worship him as a hero had been able to watch him crawl on all fours from one of my puzzling devices to another! He spent each night locked in a cage not much bigger than a suitcase--hard to conceive of his strapping frame smushed into such a tiny space, but he made it fit. What a guy!
We'd agreed to wrap things up by noon on Monday, so I pulled him out of the cage late Sunday night and subjected him to one last round of games. We were both about to burst at the seams when I ordered him into the bedroom, pushed him onto his stomach on the bed, chained his wrists and ankles, and started pumping away into his asscrack. Just when I was on the verge of explosion, I pulled out and let my cream fly all over his bare back. As icing on the cake (as it were), I brought my index finger into the moist puddle which had gathered on his skin and drew a large question mark.
"See you soon, lover," I teased, and then left the building. Based on past experience, I'm guessing it took him just under two minutes to free himself and another two to pack up and head for his famous "batmobile." Good thing he's got tinted windows in that car, or else the other drivers on the road at 5 AM would have seen quite a sight: the famous Batman wearing next to nothing, bruised and beaten, his backside drenched in the cum of his favorite arch-villain. And I'm pretty sure they would have caught quite the traces of a smile on his face, too.