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.