Removing Bruce from his restraints was a matter of reaching into Batman's belt to access his knife and keys, an act I found extremely erotic.
(The strangeness of that sentence only mirrors the confusion of the situation. The more I think about it, the less I am sure where I stand: is the man I have been describing "Bruce Wayne," or is he "Batman"? I suspect he is both at once, whether he wants to be or not--but as I shall point out below, the difference matters greatly from my own perspective.)
As I freed each one of his limbs, it drooped downward after hours and hours of abuse. Soon his trunk was draped over mine, and he clung to me for support. I held him upright for a long moment, then pulled him in close for a kiss. I could still feel the moisture--water, and otherwise--on his suit.
We were both silent as we stared into each other's eyes. This was not what I had planned--and in fact it meant that my entire course of training for him was no longer possible--but it felt too powerful to resist.
As we embraced, a new plan took shape. I let him rest for a moment, and then we began moving. This time it was he who led me--out of the basement room and up to my quarters. As I stood watching, he began to undress: gloves first, then belt. He began to unfasten his cape, and then I grabbed his hand to stop him.
"No. Wait. I... I wish you'd leave it on. All of it. It's easier that way."
I'd told myself that all of this completely unacceptable behavior of mine was the slightest bit justifiable as long as he remained in disguise. It was out of the question that I do any of this with Bruce Wayne, who after all was paying me, and handsomely. But Batman was another matter altogether. If I could relate to him as another man, a different man, then perhaps there was some way I could live with my actions.
We eased ourselves onto the bed, our limbs already beginning to find new means of interlocking as we landed. Our kisses were deep and passionate, and in time I was mounting him from behind with a fury that surprised even me. I pulled the lower sections of his costume down just far enough to plant my shaft in his ass.
"H--hold me down," he murmured, and I took hold of his wrists and pressed them into the mattress as I pumped away. The full weight of my legs served to pin his boots in place, too. The two of us grunted like animals. We both worked up quite a sweat, and our perspiration blended with the other fluids marking his suit.
There was something dreamlike and unbelievable about this entire scenario; I think now that it was the sight of the Batman squirming and moaning beneath me, as much as the sheer physical sensation of my thrusts, that caused me to produce a second load of spunk with such speed. Once I'd shot my wad, I fell onto him, my chest pressing into his back, and I lay there panting until I fell asleep.
When I woke up, he was gone. I haven't seen him since then, either. It's been more than two weeks now. I keep hoping that writing about what happened will help me work through it, but that doesn't seem to be happening.
I've used silence as part of my treatment strategy often and effectively--but this is the first time I've been on the receiving end.
I hate it.