209. Anonymous

I declare today to be my birthday. On this night traditionally devoted to the celebration of fear, my eyes are open wide and I take my first breath. I welcome myself into the world, and prepare myself to cleanse it of all impurity. I am but an infant now. I am ravenous, and with each passing day I shall grow in power and in wisdom. My training begins tonight. Soon I shall blaze a path of glory across the sky, and all of Gotham City shall speak my name with trembling tongue.

I must remember to thank the good doctor who eased me into being. In all that I do, I endeavor to bring him great pride as I rise to my rightful place in the universe.

Behold me, Gotham: I am your future.

208. Gustavus

I knew my behavior by this point was completely unprofessional, to say the least, and I honestly didn't care.

What mattered far more to me was the new choice I found myself confronting: Batman was groaning from a powerful combination of pain and pleasure, and I had to make a move. I could ignore him and let the experience lift him into a new realm. I could set him free to find for himself. Or I could do what I did next:

I left him hanging there, immobilized and excited to the point of physical agony, his costume stained with my spunk. I cupped his cock in my hand and stroked it as it jutted through his tights.

"Please..." he moaned. "F-finish me off." From the way he said it, I wasn't quite sure whether he was begging for release or something more permanent.

I reached under his belt and grabbed hold of his outer briefs, yanking them down till they fell to his ankles. I worked on his tights after that; they didn't go quite as far down, but they left an athletic supporter visible, and I had that out of the way in no time. His shaft was in plain view now, and I could see just how distended it had become. I noticed, too, how aptly the term "blueballs" described his condition. I knew I was directly responsible for all of this, and that thought turned me on once again.

I took off my shirt as slowly as I possibly could. I knew he found me an attractive man, and I decided to let him get an eyeful of what he wanted. His cock twitched as he did. When I'd had enough of this game, I let the shirt fall to the ground, then bent down and picked it up. I wrapped the tail of it around his shaft and began to jerk him off through it.

It did not take long at all for him to soak the cloth with his juice. When he was done, I applied the wet mess to select parts of his body--a dab on his cheeks, and the top of his cowl, followed by a swipe across his chest. I traced the bat emblem on his costume with my finger while he nearly howled.

There was one more thing I wanted to do to him that night. It occured to me that if I'd truly overstepped a boundary, I might never see him again. That only gave me further incentive to keep going.

207. Gustavus

I stared at Batman hanging there, his still-wet costume clinging even more closely to his flesh. Even though he was no longer in fighting shape, his muscles were prominently displayed and quiet impressive. I could only imagine what he might look like at the top of his form. He was silent, his eyes following me as I approached him. I stood so close that I could hear his quiet breathing, watch his chest rise and fall as air filled and left his lungs. I could smell the moisture on his clothes, even the faintest trace of soap.

I knew this man--knew his secrets, his weaknesses, knew them better than anyone else on earth. Better far than he knew himself. And yet I saw him now as a stranger: a strong, beautiful stranger, one who had placed his life in my hands.

I was near enough to touch him, and then ... I did. I reached out and felt the tautness of his costume over his outstretched arm. I knew then, and I know now, that that was my biggest mistake. That I had turned a corner which would forever change the nature of our relationship. I had touched him before, but only sparingly, and only in the service of treatment. Never, ever for my own selfish purposes. But this brief encounter--I withdrew my hand almost as quickly as I had advanced it--was different, and I knew it. I was doing this for my sake, for the pleasure it would bring me, not for any conceivable benefit it might bring him. What was happening now had nothing to do with therapy and everything to do with ...

Almost without thinking, I reached down, unzipped my pants, and pulled out my cock. Now that I'd turned a corner, there was no going back, no undoing what had begun. I started to stroke myself, scanning his body as I did. I imagined the two of us making love--or perhaps I should say I acknowledged for the first time that what we were doing was making love, the purest kind either of us knew. That thought--the sheer fact that this was as exciting to him as it was to me--made me even harder. We were twin spirits, united by countless unbreakable threads, this one the strongest of all. I wanted him, and I had him.

I grunted as I masturbated, and he began to respond to my gutteral sounds by writhing a bit, ever so sensuously, within his bonds. "Take me," he whispered, pleading so quietly that I wondered whether he'd said a word or not.

In a matter of moments I shot a deeply satisfying, gut-emptying load, aiming so it would land on one of his boots. I reached down, wiped my right hand in my warm spunk, and then wiped it off on his briefs,using them as if they were a towel. His shaft was so hard and so immobile it felt like it could not possibly be a living piece of flesh.

It was only then that I remembered what I had put him through earlier, forbidding him to cum for the last several days. Suddenly my action felt cruel in a way I had not intended--cruel because I had forgotten his situation, had been lost in my own desires.

"P-please..." he said gently. "Please..."

206. Gustavus

I've been thinking about what happened that moment 10 days ago; I still can't quite believe I did what I did, or that the stituation has taken its current direction.

Walking into that room and seeing Batman hanging there--not Bruce Wayne, not a client, but the actual Batman--I ... I simply lost control of myself. There is no other explanation. All my years of experience and training in my craft simply vanished, and I found myself face to face with .. with this man. I knew who he was under the disguise, but it did not matter. (In subsequent days, it has occured to me that whatever happened that brought him to this point in his life--whatever it was that reduced a legendary vigilante to the level of a simpering bottom--I could surely empathize, whether I wanted to or not.)

I think it was the sight of his erection that pushed me over the edge. I'd seen Wayne in states of arousal many times during our sessions and had been able to tell myself this was all part of the treatment, but--again--this was different. I'd been trying to come to terms with my growing feelings for Wayne already; I am all too familiar with the process of transference, but I...

I suppose I finally acknowledged that this was an extraordinary situation, one for which no amount of education or experience could prepare me. More was at stake here than in any of my previous cases. I decided to follow my instincts into uncharted territory, come what may.

That is the best--the only--possible explanation for why I allowed myself to do what I did next.

205. The omniscient narrator

He could feel the jet of water hitting the outside of his suit for several minutes before it registered as warm or wet. He stood and watched as it landed: first as individual beads, most of them bouncing off and landing on the floor of the shower, then beginning to soak the costume, gradually saturating every inch of the surface. It was like an invasion, this process of moving from dry to wet.

He looked down and noticed that his uniform had grown darker from the moisture. The belt and boots were waterproofed, so there was no need for concern that they would be damaged or destroyed, but he was also feeling several pounds heavier.

That's when it dawned on him: the suit had become a kind of prison, weighing him down instead of giving him the freedom it once promised.

He began to wonder, too, just who he was at this point. Costume or not, he did not feel like Batman, just an everyday civilian trapped in clothes that did not belong to him.

He turned off the water, then stepped out of the shower, toweled himself off--no thought of removing the soaking wet attire--and headed downstairs. A trail of water followed him. It squished out of his boots, dripped off his cape and gloves, leaked from his bodysuit. He was like a child leaving his bath, messing up the floor as he left the room.

He knew exactly what to do next, having been led through the ritual Gustavus had taught him many times in recent weeks. This time, however, instead of locating chains and other items to bind himself, he reached into his utility belt and produced his own batcuffs and rope, then began threading them through the mechanism that would hold him suspended in place for the next several hours, hands and feet outstretched. He hung there, a cross between a puppet and a captured speciment, until further notice. What a perfect prize he would make for his master, he thought, his cock stiffening once more.

204. B.

Earlier tonight Gustavus beckoned me to join him in the main room. "Mask on," he said, and I obeyed.

He pointed at a spot on the floor. "Kneel."

I did as I was told. He walked closer, and I could see that he was freshly showered and wearing newly laundered clothes. They still smelled slightly of detergent, which mixed with a light scent of cologne.

I, on the other hand, was filthy, having worn the same outfit for a week. I was unwashed, unshaven, a stinking mess of a man. I felt ashamed of myself once again, and let my head sink to my chest.

I saw his shoes--polished and immaculate--and felt him standing so close to me we were almost touching. I could feel his breath, hear his watch ticking, smell his wonderful aroma. I... I wanted to lose myself in him completely. I do not know exactly what that means, but I am certain it is not the impulse of a so-called hero.

"Have you followed my instructions?" he asked. The erection jutting from below the buckle of my utility belt was clear evidence that I had.

"What was that?" he said, leaning in even closer. "I didn't hear you."

"Y... yes, sir," I whispered. It was all I could do to keep from tearing the suit off and squeezing my shaft until it exploded.

"Good," he said. "Very good."

He remained at my side for the next hour, not saying a word, not moving. I was in tremendous pain, wanting more than anything to release the pressure building up inside me.

Finally he spoke once more. "That's all for tonight. Go to your room and take a shower. IN your suit. Let the water soak it thoroughly. Lather it up and rinse it off--but don't remove it. When you're done, go downstairs and tie yourself to the overhead beams, as we have done before. You know the room I mean. Stay there until you're completely dry, and then return here. If I'm not here, wait for me. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," I replied.

"Good night... Batman," he said.

I've come here to the room to make these notes before stepping into the shower. The water is already hot, and there is steam building up. I long to be clean again, although I doubt that is the purpose of this particular exercise.

203. B.

It has been six days now since Gustavus told me to put the suit on again, time I have spent in training sessions with him punctuated by long periods of solitude. I have worn it ever since, removing only the mask on occasion, and only on his command. The entire thing reeks of my sweat and precum, and I long to remove it, but he will not let me. Not yet, at least.
Nor has he let allowed me to reach an orgasm, despite my near-perpetual state of arousal. I do not regret that I shared this part of myself with him--I do not regret anything that has happened during these sessions--but I feel foolish. The constant presence of tenting in my tights only adds to my sense of embarrassment.

I cannot deny that the suit is now and perhaps forever linked in my mind with shame and failure: my shame, my failure. Sometimes I am embarrassed by the thought that I ever believed that wearing this ... this costume would make the city a better place, would accomplish anything whatsoever. Other times I reflect on the absurdity and futility of my original quest, and admit to myself that it was doomed from the start. I cannot look at myself in this outfit without remembering the horrible things Strange made me do the last time I wore one like it--things that, I confess, made me feel more alive than I had ever felt before.

I do not know if this was Gustavus' intention, but I have come to realize that wearing the costume once more is simply another form of humiliation akin to the many others to which he has subjected me during our time together. With the mask clinging tightly to my skull and the suit gripping me like a second skin, I feel more naked than on those days when he stripped me of my street clothes and made me stand before him. I feel as though I have no place to hide, no more secrets to conceal.

I realize, too, that I am at last fulfilled. It is not necessary for me to pretend any longer that my purpose in wearing the costume is to fight crime or improve the world--I wear it only to satisfy myself, and I cannot say for sure whether that has anything to do with "improvement" or not. It is simply something I must do.

The costume is a part of me. I can no longer deny that. What I must do instead is learn what lessons it has to teach me. For that, Gustavus is my guide.

202. The omniscient narrator

"PUT IT ON," Gustavus barked. Bruce stood stock still for another moment, then reached into the case. The athletic supporter came first. It would be easy: just a simple piece of fabric, albeit reinforced in highly specific fashion. Wearing it, he could be anyone. He could still be himself, whoever that was.

Extending the elastic over the protrusion at his midsection and working his erection into its confines was not quite so easy, but he managed it. He looked down at himself and then glanced back at Gustavus as if waiting for approval. "Keep going," his mentor demanded.

The bodysuit was next. This was the point from which there could be no turning back, and Bruce swallowed hard as he stared at it, then lifted it out of the case. To distract himself, he tried to calculate precisely how long it had been since he had last worn this particular garment, but the challenge proved futile. Time was too slippery these days. All that mattered was that this uniform had become for him a symbol of broken promises, abject failure, lies embraced. He hated the suit now, hated everything it stood for--

and then he put it on. As he did, he recalled with crystal clarity the ordeals he had endured the last time he'd worn it: the drugs, the cage, the conditioning... everything. And it occured to him that all these things he'd just told himself were untrue. Planted in his head by a man bent on his destruction. He was under no obligation to believe them anymore. Hugo Strange was dead and gone--nothing but a horrible memory. The suit remained, and the revulsion he felt as he zipped it up began to fade away.

The rest came easily: the outer briefs, the boots, the gloves, the belt. Each a piece in his armor, a component of his true self. His shadow self. A reality from which he could no longer hide.

He fastened the cape around his neck. It occured to him that he'd been acting on autopilot for the last several minutes, no longer turning to Gustavus for direction. He knew what he was doing without being told for a change. This was familiar. This was his life.

Only one item remained: the mask that would complete his transformation from Bruce Wayne to Batman.

"What are you waiting for?" Gustavus said.

201. Bruce Wayne

I have endured many torments in my lifetime, but the last several days have been almost unbearable. Revealing my true self to Gustavus felt like a major step in this current process, only it was followed by ... nothing. Nothing but silence and solitude. Waiting for him to make the next move. Waiting for him to tell me what to do. Waiting for him to help me press forward. Waiting... and waiting... and waiting...

And then, last night, it happened: the phone call. "The time is here. Meet me in Room 7 in 3 minutes. And bring ... it." He didn't have to explain; I knew better than I know my own name.

I scrambled, well aware of the consequences if I were late. It felt great to be following his orders once again.

He was waiting for me when I arrived. He sat in a chair and stared as I approached him, case in hand. "Put it on the table," he said quietly. "Open it." I did so, and then looked up for his next instruction, as I have been trained to do. When he's in a good mood, he calls me an "obedient puppy" when I do this. When he is in a bad mood, there are no words.

This time, he said nothing but raised his right hand. I knew this signal very well and began to remove my clothes, my shaft stiffening as I did. This, too, has become part of the routine now: part memory of past ordeals, part anticipation of what might lie ahead. He uses my excitement as a reminder of his mastery over me. "You like this, don't you?" he teased. "You can't help yourself..."

I nodded, trying hard not to reveal what I was feeling. That was easy, since I was not even sure what that feeling was.

"Put it on," he said next, and ... I hesitated. I have put this part of my life behind me for months, and I don't want to bring it back. Honestly, I don't. I am ashamed by what I did in those days--what I tried to do, and failed to do, and the damage I brought to others as a result. I hate what I was, and I vowed never to be it again.

And yet I had no choice.